Class T Sj^_^x 
 
 Book . C s 
 
 Copyright N^. 
 
 s^oS 
 
 COPYRIGHT DEPOSnV 
 
THE 
 
 CLINK 
 
 O F T H E 
 
 I C 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS 
 WORTH READING 
 
 BY 
 
 EUGENE FIELD 
 
 CHICAGO 
 
 M. A. DONOHUE &- CO. 
 
 407-429 DEARBORN ST. 
 
^<=>^^^'^ 
 c^...^ 
 
 [library of C0Nvari£3S 
 
 i Two Copies Hee«iv6C5 ■■•] 
 
 DEC 12 VdQJ 
 
 60FY B. 
 
 CoPYRICxHT 
 1905 
 
 By M. A. DONOHUE & COMPANY 
 
INTRODUCTION, 
 
 From whatever point of view the character oi 
 Eugene Field is seen, genius — rare and quaint 
 presents itself is childlike simplicity. That he 
 was a poet of keen perception, of rare discrimina- 
 tion, all will admit. He was a humorist as deli- 
 cate and fanciful as Art emus Ward, Mark Twain, 
 Bill Nye, James Whitcomb Riley, Opie Read, or 
 Bret Harte in their happiest moods. ' Within 
 him ran a poetic vein, capable of being worked 
 in any direction, and from which he could, at will, 
 extract that which his imagination saw and felt 
 most. That he occasionally left the child-world, 
 in which he longed to Hnger, to wander among 
 the older children of men, where intuitively the 
 hungry listener follows him into his Temple of 
 Mirth, all should rejoice, for those who knew him 
 not, can while away the moments imbibing the 
 genius of his imagination in the poetry and prose 
 here presented. 
 
 Though never possessing an intimate acquaint* 
 anceship with Field, owing largely to the dis- 
 parity in our ages, still there existed a bond of 
 
4 INTRODUCTION 
 
 friendliness that renders my good opinion of him 
 in a measure trustworthy. Born in the same 
 city, both students in the same college, engaged 
 at various times in newspaper work both in St. 
 Louis and Chicago, residents of the same ward, 
 with many mutual friends, it is not surprising 
 that I am able to say of him that "the world is 
 better off that he lived, not in gold and silver or 
 precious jewels, but in the bestowal of priceless 
 truths, of which the possessor of this book be- 
 comes a benefactor of no mean share of his 
 estate." 
 
 Every lover of Field, whether of the songs of 
 childhood or the poems that lend mirth to the 
 out-pouring of his poetic nature, will welcome 
 this tmique collection of his choicest wit and 
 humor. 
 
 Charles Walter Brown. 
 
 Chicago, January, 1905. 
 
Content0, 
 
 The Clink of the Ice.. . .' ^ 25 
 
 SisTER*s Cake 29 
 
 Crumpets and Tea 34 
 
 ** Rare Roast Beef " 37 
 
 Mrs. Reilly^s Peaches 41 
 
 The Pneumogastric Nerve. 43 
 
 The Cafe Molineau 45 
 
 A New Brand of Cigars 47 
 
 The Onion Tart 48 
 
 A Western Boy's Lament 51 
 
 Seein' Things. 52 
 
 Our Whippings , 55 
 
 The Snakes that Rowdy Saw 59 
 
 Professor Vere de Blaw 63 
 
 The Rime of the Crow Eater , 72 
 
 The Aged Housewife's Prayer 78 
 
 Dutch Lullaby 79 
 
 Japanese Lullaby 81 
 
 Norse Lullaby 83 
 
 Corsican Lullaby , 84 
 
 Orkney Lullaby ^ 
 
Paghj 
 
 Jewish Lullaby 88 
 
 Armenian Lullaby 90 
 
 Cornish Lullaby 92 
 
 Mother and Child 94 
 
 The Two Little Skeezucks 95 
 
 Nightfall in Dordrecht 99 
 
 The Stork lOi 
 
 At Play 103 
 
 The English Mince Pie 105 
 
 Our Boy 116 
 
 Three Boys 121 
 
 The Mother-1N-Law 125 
 
 The Tragedie of Elaine 128 
 
 Always Right , 135 
 
 Mr. Billings of Louisville 136 
 
 The Midway 137 
 
 Inter-State Commerce 138 
 
 Fisherman Jim's Kids .* 140 
 
 Rev. Sam Small and Rev. Sam Jones — 142 
 
XCbe (Tlinft of tbe fee 
 
 Notably fond of music, I dote on a sweeter 
 
 tone 
 Than ever the harp has uttered or ever the 
 
 lute has known. 
 When I wake at five in the morning with a 
 
 feeling in my head 
 Suggestive of mild excesses before I retired 
 
 to bed; 
 When a small but fierce volcano vexes me 
 
 sore inside, 
 And my throat and mouth are furred with a 
 
 fur that seemeth a buffalo hide, — 
 How gracious those dews of solace that over 
 
 my senses fall 
 At the clink of the ice in the pitcher the boy 
 
 brings up the hall ! 
 
 Oh, is it the gaudy ballet, with features 1 can- 
 
 not name, 
 That kindles in virile bosoms that slow but 
 
 devouring flame ? 
 Or is it the midnight supper, eaten before we 
 
 retire, 
 
26 THE CLINK OF THE ICE 
 
 That presently by combustion setteth us all 
 
 afire? 
 Or Is it the cheery magnum, — nay, I'll not 
 
 chide the cup 
 That makes the meekest mortal anxious to 
 
 whoop things up: 
 Yet, what the cause soever, relief comes when 
 
 we call, — • 
 Relief with that rapturous cllnkety-clink that 
 
 clinketh alike for all. 
 
 I've dreamt of the fiery furnace that was one 
 
 vast bulk of flame,' 
 And that I was Abednego a-wallowing in that 
 
 same ; 
 And I've dreamt I was a crater, possessed of a 
 
 mad desire 
 To vomit molten lava, and to snort big gobs 
 
 of fire ; 
 I've dreamt I was Roman candles and rockets 
 
 that fizzed and screamed, — 
 In short, I have dreamt the cussedest dream 
 
 that ever a human dreamed: 
 But all the red-hot fancies were scattered 
 
 quick as a wink 
 When the spirit within that pitcher went 
 
 clinking its cllnkety-clink. 
 
THE CLINK OF THE ICE 27 
 
 Boy, why so slow in coming with that gracious, 
 
 saving cup ? 
 Oh, haste thee to the succor of the man who 
 
 is burning up ! 
 See how the ice bobs up and down, as if it 
 
 wildly strove 
 To reach its grace to the wretch who feels like 
 
 a red-hot kitchen stove ! 
 The piteous clinks it clinks methinks should 
 
 thrill you through and through: 
 An erring soul is wanting drink, and he wants 
 
 It p. d. q. I 
 And, lo ! the honest pitcher, too, falls in so dire 
 
 a fret 
 That its pallid form is presently bedewed with\ 
 
 a chilly sweat. 
 
 May blessings be showered upon the man who 
 first devised this drink 
 
 That happens along at five a.mo with its rap- 
 turous clinkety-clink ! 
 
 I never have felt the cooling flood go sizzling 
 down my throat 
 
 But what I vowed to hymn a hymn to that 
 clinkety-clink devote ; 
 
 So now, in the prime of my manhood, I polish 
 this lyric gem 
 
28 THE CLINK OF THE ICE 
 
 For the uses of all good fellows who are 
 
 thirsty at five a.m., 
 But specially for those fellows who have 
 
 known the pleasing thrall 
 Of the clink of the ice in the pitcher the boy 
 
 brings up the hall. 
 
Stster'6 Calie 
 
 I'd not complain of Sister Jane, for she was 
 
 good and kind. 
 Combining with rare comeliness distinctive 
 
 gifts of mind ; 
 Nay, I'll admit it were most fit that, worn by 
 
 social cares, 
 She'd crave a change from parlor life to that 
 
 below the stairs, 
 And that, eschewing needlework and music, 
 
 she should take 
 Herself to the substantial art of manufacturing 
 
 cake. 
 
 At breakfast, then, it would befall that Sister 
 Jane would say: 
 
 "Mother, if you have got the things, I'll make 
 some cake to-day 1" 
 
 Poor mothered cast a timid glance at father, 
 like as not — 
 
 For father hinted sister's cooking cost a fright- 
 ful lot— 
 
 99 
 
30 
 
 SISTER'S CAItE 
 
 But neither she nor he presumed to signify dis* 
 
 sent, 
 Accepting it for gospel truth that what she 
 wanted went! 
 
 No matter what the rest of 'em might chance 
 
 to have in hand, 
 The whole machinery of the house came to a 
 
 sudden stand; 
 The pots were hustled off the stove, the fire 
 
 built up anew, 
 With every damper set just so to heat the oven 
 
 through ; 
 The kitchen-table was relieved of everything, 
 
 to make 
 That ample space which Jane required when 
 
 she compounded cake. 
 
 And, oh ! the hustling here and there, the fly- 
 ing to and fro; 
 
 The click of forks that whipped the eggs to 
 lather white as snow — 
 
 And what a wealth of sugar melted swiftly out 
 of sight — 
 
 And butter? Mother said such waste would 
 ruin father, quite ! 
 
SISTER'S CAKE 31 
 
 But Sister Jane preserved a mien no pleading 
 
 could confound 
 As she utilized the raisins and the citron by 
 
 the pound. 
 
 Oh, hours of chaos, tumult, heat, vexatious din 
 
 and whirl ! 
 Of deep humiliation for the sullen hired-girl; 
 Of grief for mother, hating to see things 
 
 wasted so, 
 And of fortune for that little boy who pined to 
 
 taste that dough ! 
 It looked so sweet and yellow — sure, to taste 
 
 it were no sin — 
 But, oh! how sister scolded if he stuck his 
 
 finger in ! 
 
 The chances were as ten to one, before the 
 job was through, 
 
 That sister'd think of something else she'd 
 great deal rather do ! 
 
 So, then, she'd softly steal away, as Arabs in 
 the night. 
 
 Leaving the girl and ma to finish up as best 
 they might; 
 
 These tactics (artful Sister Jane) enabled her 
 to take 
 
 Or shift the credit or the blame of that too- 
 treacherous cake ! 
 
32 SISTER'S CAKE 
 
 And yet, unhappy is the man who has no Sis- 
 ter Jane — 
 
 Tor he who has no sister seems to me to live 
 in vain. 
 
 1 never had a sister — may be that is why to-day 
 
 Via wizened and dyspeptic, instead of blithe 
 and gay; 
 
 A boy who's only forty should be full of romp 
 and mirth, 
 
 But / (because Fm sisterless) am the oldest 
 man ofi earth ! 
 
 Had I a little sister — oh, how happy I should 
 
 be! 
 Td never let her cast her eyes on any chap but 
 
 me; 
 I'd love her and I'd cherish her for better and 
 
 for worse — 
 Fd buy her gowns and bonnets, and sing her 
 
 praise in verse; 
 And — yes, what's more, and vastly more — I 
 
 tell you what Fd do: 
 Fd let her make her wondrous cake, and I 
 
 would eat it, too ! 
 
 I have a high opinion of the sisters, as you 
 
 see— 
 Another fellow*s sister is so very dear to me 1 
 
SISTER'S CAKE 
 
 I love to work anear her when she's making 
 
 over frocks, 
 When she patches little trousers or darns 
 
 prosaic socks; 
 But I draw the line at one thing — yes, I don 
 
 my hat and take 
 A three hours* walk when she is moved to try 
 
 her hand at cake I 
 
Crumpets an& XCea 
 
 There are happenings in life that are destined 
 
 to rise 
 Like dear, hallowed visions before a man's 
 
 eyes; 
 And the p^assage of years shall not dim in the 
 
 least 
 The glory and joy of our Sabbath-day feast — 
 The Sabbath-day luncheon that's spread for us 
 
 three — 
 My worthy companions, Teresa and Leigh, 
 And me, all so hungry for crumpets and tea. 
 
 There are cynics who say with invidious zest 
 That a crumpet's a thing that will never 
 
 digest; 
 But I happen to know that a crumpet is prime 
 For digestion, if only you give it its time. 
 Or if, by a chance, it should not quite agree, 
 Why, who would begrudge a physician his fee 
 For plying his trade on crumpets and tea ? 
 
 To toast crumpets quite a la mode, I require 
 A proper long fork and a proper quick fire; 
 
 34 
 
CRUMPETS AND TEA 35 
 
 And, when they are browned, without further 
 
 ado 
 I put on the butter, that soaks through and 
 
 through. 
 And meantime Teresa, directed by Leigh, 
 Compounds and pours out a rich brew for us 
 
 three; 
 And so we sit down to our crumpets — and tea. 
 
 A hand-organ grinds in the street a weird bit, — - 
 Confound those Italians! I wish they would 
 
 quit 
 Interrupting our feast with their dolorous airs, 
 Suggestive of climbing the heavenly stairs. 
 (It's thoughts of the future, as all will agree, 
 That we fain would dismiss from our bosoms 
 
 when we 
 Sit down to discussion of crumpets and tea!) 
 
 The Sabbath-day luncheon whereof I now 
 
 speak 
 Quite answers its purpose the rest of the week; 
 Yet with the next Sabbath I wait for the bell 
 Announcing the man who has crumpets to 
 
 sell; 
 Then I scuttle downstairs in a frenzy of glee, 
 And purchase for sixpence enough for us 
 
 three, 
 Who hunger and hanker for crumpets and tea. 
 
36 CRUMPETS AND TEA 
 
 But soon — ah! too soon — I must bid a farewell 
 To joys that succeed to the sound of that bell, 
 Must hie me away from the dank, foggy 
 
 shore 
 That's filled me with colic and — yearnings for 
 
 more ! 
 Then the cruel» the heartless, the conscience- 
 less sea 
 Shall bear me afar from Teresa and Leigh 
 And the other twin friendships of crumpets 
 and tea. 
 
 Yet often, ay, ever, before my wan eyes 
 That Sabbath-day luncheon of old shall arise 
 My stomach, perhaps, shall improve by the 
 
 change. 
 Since crumpets It seems to prefer at long range: 
 But, oh, how my palate will hanker to be 
 In London again with Teresa and Leigh, 
 Enjoying the rapture of crumpets and tea? 
 
**1Ravc IRoast BccV* 
 
 When the numerous distempers to which all 
 flesh Is heir 
 
 Torment us till our very souls are reeking with 
 despair; 
 
 When that monster fiend, Dyspepsy, rears its 
 spectral hydra head, 
 
 Filling don vivants and epicures with certain 
 nameless dread; 
 
 When any ill of body or of Intellect abounds, 
 
 Be it sickness known to Galen or disease un- 
 known to Lowndes, — 
 
 In such a dire emergency It is my firm belief 
 
 That there is no diet quite so good as rare 
 roast beef. 
 
 And even when the body's in the very prime 
 
 of health, 
 When sweet contentment spreads upon the 
 
 cheeks her rosy wealth, 
 And when a man devours three meals per day 
 
 and pines for more, 
 
 37 
 
^S "RARE ROAST BEEF" 
 
 And growls because, instead of three square 
 meals, there are not four, — 
 
 Well, even then, though cake and pie do serv- 
 ice on the side, 
 
 And coffee is a luxury that may not be 
 denied, 
 
 Still, of the many viands, there is one that*s 
 hailed as chief, 
 
 And that, as you are well aware, is rare roast 
 beef. 
 
 Some like the sirloin, but I think the porter- 
 house is best, — 
 'Tis juicier and tenderer and meatier than the 
 
 rest; 
 Put on this roast a dash of salt, and then of 
 
 water pour 
 Into the sizzling dripping-pan a cupful, and no 
 
 more; 
 The oven being hot, the roast will cook in half 
 
 an hour; 
 Then to the juices in the pan you add a little 
 
 flour, 
 And so you get a gravy that is called the cap 
 
 • sheaf 
 Of that glorious summum bonunt^ rare roast 
 
 beef. 
 
"RARE ROAST BEEF 
 
 39 
 
 Served on a platter that is hot, and carved 
 
 with thin, keen knife. 
 How does this savory viand enhance the worth 
 
 of life ! 
 Give me no thin and shadowy slice, but a thick 
 
 and steaming slad- 
 Who would not choose a generous hunk to a 
 
 bloodless little dab ? 
 Upon a nice hot plate how does the juicy 
 
 morceau steam, 
 A symphony in scarlet or a red incarnate 
 
 dream! 
 Take from me eyes and ears and all, O Time, 
 
 thou ruthless thief ! 
 Except these teeth wherewith to deal with 
 
 rare roast beef. 
 
 Most every kind and role of modern victuals 
 have I tried. 
 
 Including roasted, fricasseed, broiled, toasted, 
 stewed, and fried. 
 
 Your canvasbacks and papa-bottes and mut- 
 ton-chops subese, 
 
 Your patties a la Turkey and your doughnuts 
 a la grease; 
 
 Fve whirled away dyspeptic hours with crabs 
 in marble halls, 
 
40 "RARE ROAST BEEF" 
 
 And in the lowly cottage I've experienced 
 
 codfish balls; 
 But I've never found a viand that could so 
 
 allay all grief 
 And soothe the cockles of the heart as rare 
 
 roast beef. 
 
 I honor that sagacious king who, in a grateful 
 
 mood, 
 Knighted the savory loin that on the royal 
 
 table stood; 
 And as for me I'd ask no better friend than 
 
 this good roast, 
 Which is my squeamish stomach's fortress 
 
 {feste Burg) and host; 
 For, v^?'ith this ally with me, I can mock Dys- 
 
 pepsy's wrath, 
 Can I pursue the joy of Wisdom's pleasant, 
 
 peaceful path. 
 So I do off my vest and let my waistband out a 
 
 reef 
 When I soever set me down to rare roast beef. 
 
Whether in Michigan they grew, 
 
 Or by the far Pacific, 
 Or Jersey wards, I never knew 
 
 Or cared — they were magnlfique ! 
 They set my hungry eyes aflame, 
 
 My heart to beating quicker, 
 When trotted out by that good damev 
 
 A-drowned in spicy liquor ! 
 
 Of divers sweets in many a land 
 
 I have betimes partaken, 
 Yet now for those old joys I stand. 
 
 My loyalty unshaken I 
 My palate, weary of the ways 
 
 Of modern times, beseeches 
 The toothsome grace of halcyon days 
 
 And Mrs, Reilly's peaches I 
 
 Studded with cloves and cinnamon. 
 And duly spiced and pickled, 
 
 That viand was as choice an one 
 As ever palate tickled ! 
 
 4rl 
 
42 MRS. REILLY'S PEACHES 
 
 And by those peaches on his plate 
 No valorous soul was daunted, 
 
 For oh, the more of them you ate 
 The more of them you wanted I 
 
 The years had dragged a weary pace 
 
 Since last those joys I tasted, 
 And I have grown so wan of face 
 
 And oh, so slender-waisted ! 
 Yes, all is sadly changed, and yet 
 
 If this eulogium reaches 
 A certain lady, I shall get 
 
 A quick return in peaches. 
 
XTbe i&ncumoGa5trlc IPletve 
 
 Upon an average, twice a week, 
 
 When anguish clouds my brow, 
 My good physician friend I seek 
 
 To know "what ails me now." 
 He taps me on the back and chesty 
 
 And scans my tongue for bile, 
 And lays an ear against my breast 
 
 And listens there awhile; 
 Then is he ready to admit 
 
 That all he can observe 
 Is something wrong inside, to wit: 
 
 My pneumogastric nerve ! 
 
 Now, when these Latin names within 
 
 Dyspeptic hulks like mine 
 Go wrong, a fellow should begin 
 
 To draw whaf s called the line. 
 It seems, however, that this same. 
 
 Which in my hulk abounds, 
 Is not, despite its awful name, 
 
 So fatal as it sounds; 
 Yet, of all torments known to me, 
 
 I'll say without reserve, 
 
 43 
 
THE PNEUMOGASTRIC NERVE 
 
 There is no torment like to thee, 
 Thou pneumogastric nerve I 
 
 This subtle, envious nerve appears 
 
 To be a patient foe, — 
 It waited nearly forty years 
 
 Its chance to lay me low; 
 Then, like some blithering blast of hell. 
 
 It struck this guileless bard, 
 And in that evil hour I fell 
 
 Prodigious far and hard. 
 Alas! what things I dearly love — 
 
 Pies, puddings, and preserves — 
 Are sure to rouse the vengeance of 
 
 All pneumogastric nerves ! 
 
 Oh, that I could remodel man 1 
 
 I'd end these cruel pains 
 By hitting on a different plan 
 
 From that which now obtains. 
 The stomach, greatly amplified. 
 
 Anon should occupy 
 The all of that domain inside 
 
 Where heart and lungs now lie. 
 But, first of all, I should depose 
 
 That diabolic curve. 
 The author of my thousand woes, 
 
 The pneumogastric nerve I 
 
TTbe (Tate /iDoItneau 
 
 The Cafe Molineau is where 
 
 A dainty little minx 
 Serves God and men as best she can 
 
 By serving meats and drinks. 
 Oh, such an air the creature has. 
 
 And such a pretty face ! 
 I took delight that autumn night 
 
 In hanging round the place. 
 
 I know but very little French 
 
 (I have not long been here); 
 But when she spoke, her meaning broke 
 
 Full sweetly on my ear. 
 Then, too, she seemed to understand 
 
 Whatever I'd to say, 
 Though most I knew was **oony poo/' 
 
 "Bong zhoor," and "see voo play." 
 
 The female wit is always quick, 
 
 And of all womankind 
 *Tis here in France that 3^ou, perchance. 
 
 The keenest wits shall find; 
 
 45 
 
46 THE CAFE MOLINEAU 
 
 And here you'll find that subtle gift, 
 That rare, distinctive touch, 
 
 Combined with grace of form and face. 
 That glads men overmuch. 
 
 **Our girls at home," I mused aloud, 
 
 "Lack either that or this; 
 They don't combine the arts divine 
 
 As does the Gallic miss. 
 Far be it from me to malign 
 ^ Our belles across the sea, 
 
 And yet Til swear none can compare 
 
 With this ideal She." 
 
 And then I praised her dainty foot 
 
 In very awful French, 
 And parleywood in guileful mood 
 
 Until the saucy wench 
 Tossed back her haughty auburn head, 
 
 And froze me with disdain: 
 **There are on me no flies," said she, 
 
 "For I come from Bangor, Maine!" 
 
a 1Flew Sran^ of Ctoars 
 
 **La Marie Jansen" is a new brand of cigars that has been 
 devised, manufactured, and uttered by an enterprising Boston 
 man named Horace S. Woodbury. The vivacious lady w^ho 
 gives her name to these delectable v<reeds has honored us with 
 a box of them, and we desire to testify to the superior quality 
 of the same (the cigars). The Jansen has no equal among 
 domestic goods, nor have we seen any foreign article that we 
 prefer to it. It is of medium size, of proper heft, is well filled, 
 and it imparts a singularly pleasing flavor to one's mouth. We 
 know not how better to express our approval of this paragon of 
 home industry than in thes-s eloquent words of the inspired 
 poet; 
 
 "The weed that's imported is commonly 
 courted, 
 
 But I claim that the home-made will do, sir; 
 So I hullaballoo f r th* indigenous two-f r. 
 
 And stand for the red-white-and-blue, sin 
 The Jansen's the smoker for this jolly joker — 
 
 It draws well, is fragrant and dapper; 
 It is so much the best that I'd swap all the 
 rest 
 
 For just one — in a cute little wrapper/ 
 
TLhc ©nion Uart 
 
 Of tarts there be a thousand kinds, 
 
 So versatile the art, 
 And, as we all have different minds, 
 
 Each has his favorite tart; 
 But those which most delight the rest 
 
 Methinks should suit me not: 
 The onion tart doth please me best — 
 
 Ach, GottI mein lieber Gott ! 
 
 Where but in Deutschland can be found 
 
 This boon of which I sing? 
 Who but a Teuton could compound 
 
 This sui g'enerzs thing? 
 None with the German frau can vie 
 
 In arts cuisine, I wot, 
 Whose summum bonwm breeds the sigh, 
 
 "Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott !" 
 
 You slice the fruit upon the dough, 
 
 And season to the taste, 
 
 Then in an oven (not too slow) 
 
 The viand should be placed; 
 48 
 
THE ONION TART 49 
 
 And, when 'tis done, upon a plate 
 
 You serve it piping hot, 
 Your nostrils and your eyes dilate,— 
 
 Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott ! 
 
 It sweeps upon the sight and smell 
 
 In overwhelming tide, 
 And then the sense of taste as well 
 
 Betimes is gratified: 
 Three noble senses drowned in bliss ! 
 
 I prithee tell me, what 
 Is there beside compares with this ? 
 
 Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott ! 
 
 For if the fruit be proper young, 
 
 And if the crust be good, 
 How shall they melt upon the tongue 
 
 Into a savory flood ! 
 How seek the Mecca down below, 
 
 And linger round that spot, 
 Entailing weeks and months of woe — 
 
 Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott I 
 
 If Nature gives men appetites 
 
 For things that won't digest, 
 Why, let them eat whatso delights, 
 
 And let her stand the rest; 
 And though the sin involve the cost 
 
so 
 
 THE ONION TART 
 
 Of Carlsbad, like as not, 
 'Tis better to have loved and lost— 
 Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott I 
 
 Beyond the vast, the billowy tide, 
 
 Where my compatriots dwell, 
 All kinds of victuals have I tried, 
 
 All kinds of drinks, as well; 
 But nothing known to Yankee art 
 
 Appears to reach the spot 
 Like this Teutonic onion tart— 
 
 Ach, Gott I mein lieber Gott ! 
 
 So, though I quaff of Carlsbad's tide 
 
 As full as I can hold. 
 And for complete reform inside 
 
 Plank down my hoard of gold, 
 Remorse shall not consume my heart, 
 
 Nor sorrow vex my lot. 
 For I have eaten onion tart, 
 
 Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott ! 
 
H Mestern Bo^'s !!Lament 
 
 I wished I lived away down east where cod« 
 
 fish salt the sea, 
 And where the folks have pumpkin pie and 
 
 apple sass for tea. 
 Us boys who*s livin* here out west don't get 
 
 more*n half a show — 
 We don't have nothin' else to do but jest to 
 
 sort o* grow. 
 
 Oh, if I was a bird I'd fly a million miles away 
 To where they feed their boys on pork and 
 
 beans three times a day; 
 To where the place they call the Hub gives 
 
 out its shiny spokes, 
 And where the folks — so father says — is 
 
 mostly women folks. 
 
Seefn' XTbinos 
 
 I ain't afeard uv snakes, or toads, or bugs, or 
 
 worms, or mice, 
 An* things 'at girls are skeered uv I think are 
 
 awful nice ! 
 Vm pretty brave, I guess; an' yet I hate to go 
 
 to bed, 
 For, when Tm tucked up warm an* snug an' 
 
 when my prayers are said, 
 Mother tells me *' Happy dreams!" and takes 
 
 away the light, 
 An' leaves me lyin' all alone an* seein' things 
 
 at night 1 
 
 Sometimes they're in the corner, sometimes 
 
 they're by the door, 
 Sometimes they're all a-standin' in the middle 
 
 uv the floor; 
 Sometimes they are a-sittin' down, sometimes 
 
 they're walkin' round 
 So softly an' so creepylike they never make a 
 
 sound 1 
 
SEEIN* THINGS 
 
 53 
 
 Sometimes they are as black as ink, an' other 
 
 times they're white — 
 But the color ain't no difference when you see 
 
 things at night! 
 
 Once, when I licked a feller 'at had just moved 
 
 on our street, 
 An' father sent me up to bed without a bit to 
 
 eat, 
 I woke up in the dark an' saw things standin' 
 
 in a row, 
 A-lookin' at me cross-eyed an' p'intin' at 
 
 me — so ! 
 Oh, my! I wuz so skeered that time I never 
 
 slep' a mite — 
 It's almost alluz when Fm bad I see things 
 
 at night 1 
 
 Lucky thing I ain't a girl, or I'd be skeered to 
 
 death ! 
 Bein' I'm a boy, I duck my head an' hold my 
 
 breath; 
 An' I am, oh! so sorry I'm a naughty boy, air 
 
 then 
 I promise to be better an' I say my prayers 
 
 again ! 
 
54 
 
 SEEIN' THINGS 
 
 Gran*ma tells me that's the only way to make 
 
 it right 
 When a feller has been wicked an' sees things 
 
 at night ! 
 
 An* so, when other naughty boys would coax 
 
 me into sin, 
 I try to skwush the Tempter's voice 'at urges 
 
 me within; 
 An' when they's pie for supper, or cakes 'at's 
 
 big an' nice, 
 I want to — but I do not pass my plate f'r them 
 
 things twice ! 
 No, ruther let Starvation wipe me slowly out 
 
 o' sight 
 Than I should keep a-livin' on an' seein* things 
 
 at night I 
 
Come, Harvey, let us sit awhile and talk 
 
 about the times 
 Before you went to selling clothes and I to 
 
 peddling rhymes — 
 The days when we were little boys, as naughty 
 
 little boys 
 As ever worried home-folks with their ever- 
 lasting noise ! 
 Egad ! and, were we so disposed, I'll venture 
 
 we could show 
 The scars of wallopings we got some forty 
 
 years ago; 
 What wallopings I mean, I think I need not 
 
 specif}^ — 
 Mother's v/hlpplngs didn't hurt; but father's! 
 
 oh, my ! 
 
 The way that we played hookey those many 
 years ago — 
 
 We'd rather give 'most anything than have our 
 children know ! 
 
 The thousand naughty things we did, the thou- 
 sand fibs we told — 
 
 55 
 
56 OUR WHIPPINGS 
 
 Why, thinking of them makes my Presbyterian 
 blood run cold ! 
 
 How often Deacon Sabine Morse remarked, if 
 we were his 
 
 He*d tan our "pesky little hides until the blis- 
 ters riz!" 
 
 It's many a hearty thrashing to that Deacon 
 Morse we owe — 
 
 Mother's whippings didn't count — father's did, 
 though ! 
 
 We used to sneak off swlmmin' in those care- 
 less, boyish days, 
 And come back home of evenings with our 
 
 necks and backs ablaze; 
 How mother used to wonder why our clothes 
 
 were full of sand, 
 But father, having been a boy, appeared to 
 
 understand. 
 And, after tea, he'd beckon us to join him in 
 
 the shed, 
 Where he'd proceed to tinge our backs a 
 
 deeper, darker red; 
 Say what we will of mother's, there is none 
 
 will controvert 
 The proposition that our father's lickings 
 
 always hurt ! 
 
OUR WHIPPINGS 57 
 
 For mother was by nature so forgiving and so 
 
 mild 
 That she inclined to spare the rod although 
 
 she spoiled the child; 
 And when at last in self-defence she had to 
 
 whip us, she 
 Appeared to feel those whippings a great deal 
 
 more than we ! 
 But how we bellowed and took on, as if we'd 
 
 like to die — 
 Poor mother really thought she hurt,^ and 
 
 that's what made her cry ! 
 Then how we youngsters snickered as out the 
 
 door we slid, 
 For mother's whippings never hurt, though 
 
 father's always did. 
 
 In after years poor father simmered down to 
 
 five feet four, 
 But in our youth he seemed to us in height 
 
 eight feet or more ! 
 Oh, how we shivered when he quoth in cold, 
 
 suggestive tone: 
 "I'll see you in the woodshed after supper all 
 
 alone!" 
 Oh, how the legs and arms and dust and 
 
 trouser buttons flew — 
 
58 OUR WHIPPINGS 
 
 What florid vocalisms marked that vesper 
 
 interview ! 
 Yet, after all this lapse of years, I feelingly 
 
 assert, 
 With all respect to mother, it was father's 
 
 whippings hurt ! 
 
 The little boy experiencing that tinglin' 'neath 
 
 his vest 
 Is often loath to realize that all is for the best; 
 Yet, when the boy gets older, he pictures with 
 
 delight 
 The buffetings of childhood — as we do here 
 
 to-night. 
 The years, the gracious years, have smoothed 
 
 and beautified the ways 
 That to our little feet seemed all too rugged 
 
 in the days 
 Before you went to selling clothes and I to 
 
 peddling rhymes — 
 So, Harvey, let us sit awhile and think upon 
 
 those times. 
 
Ubc Snaftes XTbat IRowt)^ Saw 
 
 These are the snakes that Rowdy saw: 
 Some were green and some were white, 
 Some were black as the spawn of night; 
 Some were yellow, 
 And one big fellow 
 Had monstrous blotches of angry red 
 And a scarlet welt on his slimy head; 
 And other snakes that Rowdy saw 
 Were of every hue 
 From pink to blue, 
 And the longer he looked, the bigger they 
 grew ! 
 
 An old he-snake with a frowzy head 
 Was one of the snakes that Rowdy saw. 
 This old he-snake he grinned and leered 
 When he saw that Rowdy was afeard; 
 And he ran out his tongue in frightful wise 
 As he batted his fireless dead-fish eyes; 
 And he lashed his tail 
 In the moonlight pale, 
 
 59 . 
 
6o THE SNAKES THAT ROWDY SAW 
 
 And he tickled his jaw with his left hind 
 
 paw — 
 Did this old he-snake that Rowdy saw ! 
 
 These hideous snakes that Rowdy saw 
 Wiggled and twisted 
 Wherever they listed, 
 Straightway glided 
 Or ambled one-sided. 
 There were some of those things 
 That had fiery wings — 
 Yes, some of the snakes that Rowdy saw 
 Hummed round in the air 
 With their eyeballs aglare 
 And their whiskers aflare, 
 And they hissed their approval of Rowdy's 
 despair! 
 
 And some of the snakes that Rowdy saw 
 Had talons like bats. 
 And looked like a cross between buzzards 
 
 and rats ! 
 They crawled from his boots, and they sprawled 
 
 on the floor, 
 They sat on the mantel, and perched on the 
 
 door, 
 And grinned all the fiercer the louder he 
 
 swore!. 
 
THE SNAKES THAT ROWDY SAW 6i 
 
 Out, out of his boots 
 Came the damnable brutes — 
 These murdersome snakes that Rowdy saw I 
 Strange cries they uttered, 
 And poison they sputtered 
 As they crawled or they fluttered ! 
 This way and that 
 Their venom they spat, 
 Till Rowdy had doubts as to where he was at ! 
 
 They twined round his legs, and encircled his 
 
 waist J 
 His arms and his neck and his breast they 
 
 embraced; 
 They hissed in his ears, and they spat in his eyes. 
 And with their foul breaths interrupted his 
 cries. 
 Blue serpents, and green, 
 Red, yellow and black — 
 Of as hideous mien 
 As ever was seen 
 Girt him round, fore and back. 
 And higgling 
 And wriggling, 
 With their slimy and grimy preponderance 
 
 they bore 
 Rowdy down to the floor. He remembers no 
 more. 
 
62 THE SNAKES THAT ROWDY SAW 
 
 The sequel is this: The snakes that he saw 
 Were such hideous snakes, were such tor- 
 
 turesome things, 
 With their poison-tipped fangs and their 
 
 devil-claw wings, 
 That he speaks of them now with a meaningful 
 
 awe; 
 And when m the bar-room the bottle goes 
 
 round, 
 And wassail and laughter and "boodle" abound, 
 Poor Rowdy he turns down his glass with a 
 
 sigh. ' 
 "Come, Rowdy, drink hearty I" the aldermen 
 
 cry. 
 His palate is yearning, his fauces are dry, 
 The bottle appeals to his gullet and eye; 
 But he thinks of the snakes, and he — ^lets it 
 
 go by. 
 
professor IDere De ifiSlaw 
 
 Achievin' sech distinction with his model 
 
 tabble dote 
 Ez to make his Red Hoss Mountain restauraw 
 
 a place uv note, 
 Our old friend Casey Innovated somewhat 
 
 round the place, 
 In hopes he would ameliorate the sufferings uv 
 
 the race; 
 *Nd uv the many features Casey managed to 
 
 import 
 The most important wuz a Steenway gran* 
 
 pianny-fort, 
 An', bein' there wuz nobody could play upon 
 
 the same, 
 He telegraffed to Denver, 'nd a real perfesser 
 
 came, — 
 The last an' crownin' glory uv the Casey 
 
 restauraw 
 Wuz that tenderfoot musicianer, Perfesser 
 
 Vere de Blaw 1 
 
 His hair wuz long an* dishybill, an* he had a 
 
 yaller skin, 
 
 An* the absence uv a collar made his neck 
 
 look powerful thin; 
 
 63 
 
64 PROFESSOR VERE DE BLAW 
 
 A sorry man he wuz to see, az mebby you*d 
 
 surmise, 
 But the fire uv inspiration wuz a-blazin' in his 
 
 eyes ! 
 His name wuz Blanc, wich same is Blaw (for 
 
 that's what Casey said, 
 An' Casey passed the French ez well ez any 
 
 Frenchie bred); 
 But no one ever reckoned that it really wuz 
 
 his name, 
 An' no on6 ever asked him how or why or 
 
 whence he came, — 
 Your ancient history is a thing the Coloradan 
 
 hates. 
 An' no one asks another what his name wuz 
 
 in the States ! 
 
 At evenin', when the work wuz done, *nd the 
 
 miners rounded up 
 At Casey's, to indulge in keerds or linger with 
 
 the cup, 
 Or dally with the tabble dote in all its native 
 
 glory, 
 Perfesser Vere de Blaw discoursed his music 
 
 repertory 
 Upon the Steenway gran' pianny-fort, the wich 
 
 wuz sot 
 
PROFESSOR VERE DE BLAW 65 
 
 In the hallway near the kitchen (a warm but 
 quiet spot), 
 
 An* when De Blaw's environments induced 
 the proper pride, — 
 
 WIch gen' rally wuz whiskey straight, with 
 seltzer on the side, — 
 
 He throwed his soulful bein' into opry airs *nd 
 things 
 
 WIch bounded to the ceilin* like he'd mesmer- 
 ized the strings. 
 
 Oh, you that live in cities where the gran' 
 
 piannies grow, 
 An' primy donnles round up, it's little that 
 
 you know 
 Uv the hungerin' an' the yearnin' wich us 
 
 miners an' the rest 
 Feel for the songs we used to hear before we 
 
 moved out West. 
 Yes, memory Is a pleasant thing, but it weak- 
 ens mighty quick; 
 It kind uv dries an* withers, like the windin' 
 
 mountain crick, 
 That, beautiful, an* singin* songs, goes dancin* 
 
 to the plains. 
 So long ez it is fed by snows an* watered by 
 
 the rains; 
 
66 PROFESSOR VERE DE BLAW 
 
 But, uv that grace uv lovin' rains 'nd mountain 
 
 snows bereft, 
 Its bleachin* rocks, like dummy ghosts, is all 
 
 its memory left. 
 
 The toons wich the perfesser would perform 
 
 with seeh eclaw 
 Would melt the toughest mountain gentleman 
 
 I ever saw, — 
 Sech touchin' opry music ez the Trovytory 
 
 sort, 
 The solium ''Mizer Reery,** an' the thrillin' 
 
 "Keely Mort"; 
 Or, sometimes, from **Lee Grond Dooshess" a 
 
 trifle he would play, 
 Or morsoze from^a' opry boof, to drive dull 
 
 care away; 
 Or, feelin' kind uv serious, he'd discourse 
 
 somewhat in C, — • 
 The wich he called a* opus — whatever that 
 
 may be; 
 But the toons that fetched the likker from the 
 
 critics in the crowd 
 Wuz not the high-toned ones, Perfesser Vere 
 
 de Blaw allowed. 
 
 Twuz "Dearest May," an' "Bonnie Doon," an' 
 the ballard uv "Ben Bolt/' 
 
PROFESSOR VERE DE BLAW 67 
 
 Ez wuz regarded by all odds ez Vere de Blaw's 
 
 best holt; 
 Then there wuz "Darlln' Nellie Gray/' an* 
 
 "Settin' on the Stile," 
 An' "Seein* Nellie Home/' an' "Nancy Lee," 
 
 'nd "Annie Lisle," 
 And "Silver Threads among the Gold," 'nd 
 
 "The Gal That Winked at Me," 
 An' "Gentle Annie," "Nancy Till," an' "The 
 
 Cot beside the Sea." 
 Your opry airs is good enough for them ez 
 
 likes to pay 
 Their money for the truck ez can't be got no 
 
 other way; 
 But opry to a miner is a thin an* holler thing — 
 The music that he pines for is the songs he 
 
 used to sing. 
 
 One evenin', down at Casey's, De Blaw wuz at 
 
 his best, 
 With four-fingers uv old Wilier-run concealed 
 
 beneath his vest; 
 The boys wuz settin' all around, discussin' folks 
 
 an' things, 
 'Nd I had drawed the necessary keerds to fill 
 
 on kings; 
 Three-fingered Hoover kind uv leaned acrosst 
 
 the bar to say 
 
68 PROFESSOR VERE DE BLAW 
 
 If Casey' d liquidate right off, hid liquidate 
 next day; 
 
 A sperrit uv contentment wuz a-broodin* all 
 around 
 
 (Onlike the other sperrits wich in restauraws 
 abound), 
 
 When, suddenly, we heerd from yonder 
 kitchen-entry rise 
 
 A toon each ornery galoot appeared to recog- 
 nize, 
 
 Perfesser Vere de Blaw for once eschewed his 
 
 opry ways, 
 An* the remnants uv his mind went back to 
 
 earlier, happier days 
 An* grappled like an' wrassled with a' old 
 
 familiar air 
 The wich we all uv us had heern, ez you 
 
 have, everywhere ! 
 Stock still we stopped, — some in their talk uv 
 
 politics an' things, 
 I in my unobtrusive attempt to fill on kings, 
 An' Hoover leanin' on the bar, and Casey at 
 
 the till,— 
 We all stopped short an* held our breaths (ez a 
 
 feller sometimes will), 
 An* sot there more like bumps on logs than 
 
 healthy, husky men. 
 
PROFESSOR VERE DE BLAW 69 
 
 Ez the memories uv that old, old toon come 
 sneakin' back again. 
 
 You've guessed it? No, you haven't; for it 
 
 wuzn't that there song 
 Uv the home we'd been away from an' had 
 
 hankered for so long, — 
 No, sir; it wuzn't "Home, Sweet Home,'' 
 
 though it's always heerd around 
 Sech neighborhoods in wich the home that is 
 
 "sweet home" is found. 
 And, ez for me, I seemed to see the past come 
 
 back again, 
 And hear the deep-drawed sigh my sister Lucy 
 
 uttered when 
 Her mother asked her if she'd practised her 
 
 two hours that day, 
 Wich, if she hadn't, she must go an' do it 
 
 right away ! 
 The homestead in the States an' all its memo- 
 ries seemed to come 
 A-floatin' round about me with that magic 
 
 lumty-tum. 
 
 And then uprose a stranger wich had struck 
 
 the camp that night; 
 His eyes wuz sot an' fireless, 'nd his face wuz 
 
 spookish white. 
 
70 PROFESSOR VERE DE BLAW 
 
 'Nd he sez: "Oh, how I [suffer there is nobody 
 kin say, 
 
 Onless, like me, he's wrenched himself from 
 home an* friends away 
 
 To seek surcease from sorrer in a fur, secloo- 
 ded spot, 
 
 Only to find — alars, too late ! — the wich sur- 
 cease Is not 1 
 
 Only to find that there air things that, some- 
 how, seem to live 
 
 For nothin' in the world but jest the misery 
 they give ! 
 
 Tve travelled eighteen hundred miles, but that 
 toon has got here first; 
 
 Fm done, — I'm blowed, — I welcome death, an' 
 bid It do its worst !" 
 
 Then, like a man whose mind wuz sot on 
 
 yieldin' to his fate. 
 He waltzed up to the counter an' demanded 
 
 whiskey straight, 
 Wich havin* got outside uv, — both the likker 
 
 and the door, — 
 We never seen that stranger in the bloom uv 
 
 health no more ! 
 But, some months later, what the birds had 
 
 left uv him wuz found 
 
PROFESSOR VERE DE BLAW 71 
 
 Associated with a tree, some distance from the 
 
 ground; 
 And Husky Sam, the coroner, that set upon 
 
 him, said 
 That two things wuz apparent, namely: first, 
 
 deceast wuz dead; 
 And, second, previously had got involved 
 
 beyond all hope 
 In a knotty complication with a yard or two 
 
 uv rope ! 
 
Cbe 1Rimc ot tbe Crow Eatet 
 
 Into the market place there came 
 (One autumn morning murky) 
 
 An old and battered veteran 
 To choose a proper turkey. 
 
 His coat tails and his shrunken shanks 
 Had cockle burrs stuck to *em, 
 
 And his whiskers looked as if the wind 
 Of winter had blown through 'em. 
 
 And still as through those whiskers white 
 
 The breezes rudely fluttered, 
 The old man from a cracker-box 
 
 This strange recital uttered: 
 
 'Twice two long years," says he, "I've sot 
 
 Around the Grand Pacific, 
 And all that twice two years the feed 
 Has simply been terrific." 
 
 THE GRAND PACIFIC 
 
 '*For twice two years I've eaten crow 
 
 In widely various weathers; 
 Not only meat and skin and bones^ 
 But also claws and feathers !" 
 
 72 
 
THE RIME OF THE CROW EATER 73 
 A CROW 
 
 "The crow it is a dismal bird, 
 And deeply I abhor It; 
 For twice two years Tve lived on crow, 
 Though never clamoring for it. 
 
 " 'What have we on the bill to-day ?* 
 
 I'd question of the waiter; 
 *Turk fer the rest/ sez he, 'but you 
 Gets crow an' cold pertater !' 
 
 "They gave me crow In every style 
 And every foreign name, sir — 
 Alas ! no matter how disguised, 
 Crow alwaysjs the same, sir! 
 
 "Though it be christened a la mode^ 
 Still is its flavor queer, sir; 
 No rhetoric can mitigate 
 Its consequences here, sir I 
 
 "In vain I fled from John B. Drake 
 To other restauraters; 
 In vain I sought for victuals else 
 Than crow and cold pertaters !" 
 
 A RESTAURANT 
 
 "They fed me crow and only crow 
 Until I thought Td die, sir; 
 
74 THE RIME OF THE CROW EATER 
 
 I got so full of crow at last 
 I half opined I'd fly, sir ! 
 
 "For, as I said a spell ago, 
 
 In fair and stormy weathers, 
 1 ate not only the skin and bones — 
 I ate also the feathers ! 
 
 **The crow it is a noxious bird 
 To stomachs such as mine is; 
 But, heaven be praised! there is no ill 
 But some time has its Jims! 
 
 "Once, as I chewed the bitter cud 
 Of gloomy introspections, 
 A cheery voice broke in upon 
 The thread of my reflections. 
 
 "I looked up and saw the face 
 Of Captain John R. Tanner! 
 I heard salvation in his voice — 
 I saw it in his manner 1 
 
 "At once dispelled were gnawing griefs 
 And apprehensions gloomy; 
 ^ Of all the spectacles on earth. 
 
 This was the most precious to me I" 
 
THE RIME OF THE CROW EATER 75 
 
 SPECTACLES 
 
 C( c 
 
 John! John!' I wailed, 'give piteous ear 
 
 Unto my tale of woe, sir; 
 For twice two years I've eaten crow, 
 And eaten only crow, sir I 
 
 " * What wonder is it that I cry, 
 "(9 temporal O mores P* 
 Since gnawing crow has worn away 
 My denies inczsores/\ " 
 
 DENTES INCISORES 
 
 " 'The bird of which you speak,* says John, 
 *It, too, has been my living; 
 But, Bailey, you and I shall gorge 
 On turkey, come Thanksgiving ! 
 
 tc 
 
 'See here; I have a subtle soup 
 Corked up in this decanter, 
 
 With which I'll prove ''simtlza 
 Similibus curantMrT 
 
 «< « 
 
 I shall inject this subtle soup 
 Into our common foe, sir; 
 Then shall zve get the turkey-bird, 
 And they shall get the crow, sir I 
 
76 THE RIME OF THE CROW EATER 
 
 » ( 
 
 But never mind particulars — 
 Just wait and watch the sequel ! 
 Oh, we shall lead them such a dance 
 As never had an equal !' " 
 
 A DANCE 
 
 «( 
 
 Twas even as John Tanner said, 
 And you will not deny it 
 If you observe, Thanksgiving Day, 
 My changed and sumptuous diet I 
 
 Times are more prosperous than they were- 
 Once more we've peace and plenty; 
 
 Turkey shall be my dainty feast 
 Next week, Deo volentel 
 
 'For twice two years I've lived on crow 
 Through ever changeful weathers — 
 
 Those twice two cycles fed on skins. 
 Bones, inwards, claws and feathers.** 
 
 TWICE TWO CYCLES 
 
 "But fickle fate has brought me joy, 
 And, feeling blithe and perky, 
 I've come into the market place 
 To fetch a bouncing turkey. 
 
THE RIME OF THE CROW EATER ^^ 
 
 "No senile, starveling bird will do — 
 But one that's young and tender; 
 One that is whiskerless and plump, 
 And of the female gender 1" 
 
 A TURKEY 
 
 "Fll carve it next Thanksgiving Day, 
 
 And pour the oyster sauce on — 
 'Twill be a goodly change from crow X' 
 Quoth grand old Bailey Dawson 
 
tCbe Hfle& Ibousewite's Ptapet 
 
 I pray that, risen from the dead, 
 I may in glory stand, 
 
 A crown, perhaps, upon my head- 
 But a needle in. my hand. 
 
 Fve had no time to learn to play — 
 
 So let no harp be mine; 
 Through all my life, by night and day. 
 
 Plain sewing*s been my line. 
 
 Therefore, accustomed, to the end. 
 
 To plying useful stitches, 
 ril be content if asked to mend 
 
 The little angels* breeches. 
 
 Live long, dear, kindly woman — live long to 
 bless us with your gentle works and Christian 
 example; live long to gather from our hands 
 and lips and hearts the debt of gratitude and 
 love we owe ! 
 
. H)tttcb aullabs 
 
 Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night 
 
 Sailed off In a wooden shoe — 
 Sailed on a river of misty light, 
 
 Into a sea of dew. 
 "Where are you going, and what do you wish ?'* 
 
 The old moon asked the three. 
 "We have come to fish for the herring fish 
 That live in this beautiful sea; 
 Nets of silver and gold have we T 
 Said Wynken, 
 Blynken, 
 And Nod. 
 
 The old moon laughed and sang a song. 
 
 As they rocked in the wooden shoe. 
 And the wind that sped them all night long 
 
 Ruffled the waves of dew. 
 The little stars were the herring fish 
 That lived in that beautiful sea — 
 "Now cast your nets wherever you wish — 
 Never afeard are we"; 
 So cried the stars to the fishermen three: 
 Wynken, 
 Blynken, 
 And Nod. 
 
8o DUTCH LULLABY 
 
 All night long their nets they threw 
 
 To the stars in the twinkling foam — 
 Then down from the skies came the wooden 
 shoe, 
 Bringing the fishermen home, 
 'Twas all so pretty a sail it seemed 
 
 As if it could not be, 
 And some folks thought *twas a dream they'd 
 dreamed 
 Of sailing that beautiful sea — 
 But I shall name you the fishermen three. 
 Wynken, 
 Blynken, 
 And Nod. 
 
 Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes, 
 
 And Nod is a little head, 
 And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies 
 
 Is a wee one's trundle-bed. 
 So shut your eyes while mother sings 
 
 Of wonderful sights that be, 
 And you shall see the beautiful things ^ 
 As you rock in the misty sea 
 Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen 
 three: 
 
 Wynken, 
 Blynken, 
 And Nod. 
 
■Japanese XuUab^ 
 
 Sleep, little pigeon, and fold your wings, — 
 Little blue pigeon with velvet eyes; 
 
 Sleep to the singing of mother-bird swinging—' 
 Swinging the nest where her little one lies. 
 
 Away out yonder I see a star,— 
 Silvery star with a tinkling song; 
 
 To the soft dew failing I hear it calling — 
 Calling and tinkling the night along. 
 
 In through the vnndow a moonbeam comes, — 
 Little gold moonbeam with misty wings; 
 
 All silently creeping, it asks: *'Is he sleeping — 
 Sleeping and dreaming while mother sings ?'* 
 
 Up from the sea there floats a sob 
 Of the waves that are breaking upon the 
 shore, 
 As though they were groaning in anguish, and 
 moaning — 
 Bemoaning the ship that shall come no 
 more. 
 
 8i 
 
82 JAPANESE LULLABY 
 
 But sleep, little pigeon, and fold your wings,— 
 Little blue pigeon with mournful eyes; 
 
 Am I not singing ? — see, I am swinging — 
 Swinging the nest where my darling lies. 
 
I^orse Xullabf 
 
 The sky is dark and the hills are white 
 
 As the storm - king speeds from the north 
 
 to-night; 
 And this is the song the storm-king sings, 
 As over the world his cloak he flings: 
 
 "Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep;" 
 He rustles hi^ wings and gruffly sings: 
 
 "Sleep, little one, sleep." 
 
 On yonder mountain-side a vine 
 Clings at the foot of a mother pine; 
 The tree bends over the trembling thing, 
 And only the vine can hear her sing: 
 
 "Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep; 
 What shall you fear when I am here ? 
 
 Sleep, little one, sleep." 
 
 The king may sing in his bitter flight, 
 The king may croon to the vine to-night, 
 But the little snowflake at my breast 
 Liketh the song / sing the best, — 
 
 Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep; 
 Weary thou art, anext my heart 
 
 Sleep, little one, sleep. 
 
 83 
 
Cotafcan Xullabv 
 
 Bambino in his cradle slept; 
 
 And by his side his grandam grim 
 Bent down and smiled upon the child. 
 
 And sung this lullaby to him, — 
 This "ninna and anninia": 
 
 "When thou art older, thou shalt mind 
 To traverse countries far and wide, 
 And thou shalt go where roses blow 
 And balmy waters singing glide — 
 So ninna and anninia! 
 
 «< 
 
 And thou shalt wear, trimmed up in points 
 
 A famous jacket edged in red, 
 And, more than that, a peaked hat, 
 
 All decked in gold, upon thy head — 
 Ah ! ninna and anninia I 
 
 "Then shalt thou carry gun and knife, 
 
 Nor shall the soldiers bully thee; 
 
 Perchance, beset by wrong or debt, 
 
 A mighty bandit thou shalt be — 
 
 So ninna and anninia ! 
 84 
 
CORSICAN LULLABY 85 
 
 "No woman yet of our proud race 
 
 Lived to her fourteenth year unwed; 
 The brazen churl that eyed a girl 
 
 Brought her the ring or paid his head — 
 So ninna and anninia I 
 
 **But once came spies (I know the thieves I) 
 And brought disaster to our race; 
 God heard us when our fifteen men 
 Were hanged within the market-place — 
 But ninna and anninia I 
 
 "Good men they were, my babe, and true,— 
 Right worthy fellows all, and strong; 
 Live thou and be for them and me 
 Avenger of that deadly wrong — 
 So ninna and anninia T' 
 
r 
 
 A moonbeam floateth from the skies, 
 Whispering, *'Heigho, my dearie! 
 I would spin a web before your eyes— 
 A beautiful web of silver light, 
 Wherein is many a wondrous sight 
 Of a radiant garden leagues away. 
 Where the softly tinkling lilies sway, 
 And the snow-white lambkins are at play,- 
 Heigho, my dearie !" 
 
 A brownie stealeth from the vine, 
 Singing, "Heigho, my dearie! 
 And will you hear the song of mine, — 
 A song of the land of murk and mist 
 Where bideth the bud the dew hath kist? 
 Then let the moonbeam's web of light 
 Be spun before thee silvery white. 
 And I shall sing the livelong night, — 
 Heigho, my dearie 1" 
 
 The night wind speedeth from the sea, 
 
 Murmuring, "Heigho, my dearie I 
 I bring a mariner's prayer for thee; 
 
 36 
 
ORKNEY LULLABY 87 
 
 So let the moonbeam veil thine eyes, 
 And the brownie sing thee lullabies; 
 But I shall rock thee to and fro, 
 Kissing the brow he loveth so, 
 And the prayer shall guard thy bed, I trow, — 
 Heigho, my dearie T 
 
Sewtsb XullabB 
 
 My harp is on the willow-tree, 
 Else would I sing, O love, to thee 
 
 A song of long-ago — 
 Perchance the song that Miriam sung 
 Ere yet Judea's heart was wrung 
 
 By centuries of woe. 
 
 I ate my crust in tears to-day, 
 
 As scourged I went upon my way — 
 
 And yet my darling smiled; 
 Ay, beating at my breast, he laughed — 
 My anguish curdled not the draught — 
 
 *Twas sweet with love, my child I 
 
 The shadow of those centuries lies 
 Deep in thy dark and mournful eyes — 
 
 But, hush ! and close them now; 
 And in the dreams that thou shalt dream 
 The light of other days shall seem 
 
 To glorify thy brow I 
 
 88 
 
JEWISH LULLABY 89 
 
 Our harp is on the willow-tree — 
 I have no song to sing to thee, 
 
 As shadows around us roll: 
 But, hush and sleep, and thou shalt hear 
 Jehovah's voice that speaks to cheer 
 
 Judea's fainting soul I 
 
Hrmentan Xullal)^ 
 
 If thou wilt close thy drowsy eyes, 
 My mulberry one, my golden sun ! 
 
 The rose shall sing thee lullabies 
 My pretty cosset lambkin ! 
 
 And thou shalt swing in an almond-tree, 
 
 With a flood of moonbeams rocking thee- 
 
 A silver boat in a golden sea — 
 
 My own velvet love, my nestling dove, 
 My own pomegranate blossom ! 
 
 The stork shall guard thee passing well 
 All night, my sweet ! my dimple-feet 1 
 And bring thee myrrh and asphodel, 
 
 My gentle rain-of-sprlngtlme ! 
 And for thy slumbrous play shall twine 
 The diamond stars with an emerald vine— 
 To trail in the waves of ruby wine — 
 My myrtle bloom, my heart's perfume, 
 My little chirping sparrow ! 
 
 And when the morn wakes up to see 
 My apple bright, my soul's delight ! 
 
 QO 
 
ARMENIAN LULLABY 91 
 
 The partridge shall come calling thee, 
 
 My jar of milk-and-honey ! 
 Yes, thou shalt know what mystery lies 
 In the amethyst deep of the curtained skies. 
 If thou wilt fold thy onyx eyes. 
 
 You w^akeful one, you naughty son. 
 You cooing little turtle! 
 
Cornisb Xullabg 
 
 Out on the mountain over the town 
 
 All night long, all night long, 
 The trolls go up and the trolls go down, 
 
 Bearing their packs and crooning a song; 
 And this is the song the hill-folk croon. 
 As they trudge in the light of the misty moon,- 
 This is ever their dolorous tune: 
 "Gold, gold ! ever more gold, — 
 
 Bright red gold for dearie!" 
 
 Deep in the hill the yeoman delves 
 
 All night long, all night long; 
 None but the peeping, furtive elves 
 
 See his toil and hear his song; 
 Merrily ever the cavern rings 
 As merrily ever his pick he swings, 
 And merrily ever this song he sings: 
 "Gold, gold ! ever more gold,- — 
 
 Bright red gold for dearie !" 
 
 Mother is rocking thy lowly bed 
 All night long, all night long, 
 
 92 
 
CORNISH LULLABY 
 
 93 
 
 Happy to smooth thy curly head 
 
 And to hold, thy hand and to sing her song; 
 Tis not of the hill-folk, dwarfed and old, 
 Nor the song of the yeoman, stanch and bold, 
 And the burden it beareth is not of gold; 
 But it's "Love, love ! — nothing but love, — 
 Mother's love for dearie 1" 
 
/Dotbet anb CbtlD 
 
 One night a tiny dewdrop fell 
 
 Into the bosom of a rose, — 
 "Dear little one, I love thee well, 
 
 Be ever here thy sweet repose !** 
 
 Seeing the rose with love bedight. 
 
 The envious sky frowned dark, and then 
 Sent forth a messenger of light 
 
 And caught the dewdrop up again. 
 
 "Oh, give me back my heavenly child, — 
 My love !" the rose in anguish cried; 
 
 Alas ! the sky triumphant smiled, 
 And so the flower, heart-broken, died. 
 
XCbe ICwo Xfttle Sfteesucfts 
 
 There were two little skeezucks who lived in 
 the isle 
 Of Boo in a southern sea; 
 They clambered and rollicked in heathenish 
 style 
 In the boughs of their cocoanut tree. 
 They didn*t fret much about clothing and such, 
 And they recked not a whit of the ills 
 That sometimes accrue 
 From having to do 
 With tailor and laundry bills. 
 
 The two little skeezucks once heard of a 
 Fair 
 Far off from their native isle, 
 And they asked of King Fan if they mightn't 
 go there 
 To take in the sights for a while. 
 Now old King Fan 
 Was a good-natured man 
 (As good-natured monarchs go), 
 And howbeit he swore that all Fairs were a 
 bore, 
 He hadn't the heart to say "No." 
 
 95 
 
96 THE TWO LITTLE SKEEZUCKS 
 
 So the two little skeezucks sailed off to the 
 Fair 
 In a great big gum canoe, 
 And I fancy they had a good time there, 
 
 For they tarried a year or two. 
 And old King Fan at last began 
 To reckon they'd come to grief, 
 When, glory! one day 
 They sailed into the bay 
 To the tune of "Hail to the Chief !" 
 
 The two little skeezucks fell down on the sand 
 
 Embracing his majesty's toes, 
 Till his majesty graciously bade them stand 
 And salute him nose to nose. 
 And then quoth he: 
 "Divulge unto me 
 What happenings have hapt to you; 
 And how did they dare to indulge in a Fair 
 So far from the island of Boo ?" 
 
 The two little skeezucks assured their king 
 That what he surmised was true; 
 
 That the Fair would have been a different 
 thing 
 Had it only been held in Boo ! 
 
 "The folk over there in no wise compare 
 With the folk of the southern seas; 
 
THE TWO LITTLE SKEEZUCKS 97 
 
 Why, they comb out their heads 
 And they sleep In beds 
 Instead of in caverns and trees T 
 
 The two little skeezucks went on to say 
 
 That children (so far as they knew) 
 Had a much harder time in that land far away 
 Than here in the island of Boo ! 
 They have to wear clones 
 Which (as every one knows) 
 Are irksome to primitive laddies, 
 While, with forks and with spoons, they're 
 denied the sweet boons 
 That accrue from free use of one's paddies ! 
 
 (( 
 
 «( 
 
 And now that you're speaking of things to 
 eat," 
 Interrupted the monarch of Boo, 
 We beg to Inquire If you happened to meet 
 With a nice missionary or two ?" 
 No! that did we not; in that curious spot 
 Where were gathered the fruits of the earth, 
 Of that special kind 
 Which Your Nibs has In mind 
 There appeared a deplorable dearth !" 
 
 Then loud laughed that monarch in heathenish 
 mirth, 
 And laughed his courtiers, too, 
 
gB THE T,WO LITTLE SKEEZUCKS 
 
 And they cried; "There is elsewhere no land 
 upon earth 
 So good as our island of Boo !'* 
 And the skeezucks, tho' glad 
 Of the journey they'd had, 
 Climbed up in their cocoanut trees, 
 Where they still may be seen with no shirts to 
 keep clean 
 Or trousers that bag at the knees. 
 
Bigbttall in BorDrecbt 
 
 The mill goes toiling slowly around, 
 
 With steady and solemn creak, 
 And my little one hears in the kindly sound 
 
 The voice of the old mill speak. 
 While round and round those big white wings 
 
 Grimly and ghostlike creep, 
 My little one hears that the old mill sings: 
 
 "Sleep, little tulip, sleep !" 
 
 The sails are reefed and the nets are drawn, 
 
 And, over his pot of beer, 
 The fisher, against the morning's dawn, 
 
 Lustily maketh cheer; 
 He mocks at the winds that caper along 
 
 From the far-off clamorous deep, — 
 But we — we love their lullaby song 
 
 Of, "Sleep, little tulip, sleep !" 
 
 Old dog Fritz in slumber sound 
 
 Groans of the stony mart, — 
 To-morrow how proudly he'll trot you round, 
 
 Hitched to our new milk-cart 1 
 
 99 
 
 :. OF Cw 
 
lOO NIGHTFALL IN DORDRECHT 
 
 And you shall help me blanket the kine 
 
 And fold the gentle sheep, 
 And set the herring a-soak in brine, — 
 
 But now, little tulip, sleep ! 
 
 A Dream-One comes to button the eyes 
 
 That wearily droop and blink, 
 While the old mill buffets the frowning skies 
 
 And scolds at the stars that wink; 
 Over your face the misty wings 
 
 Of that beautiful Dream-One sweep, 
 And, rocking your cradle, she softly sings: 
 
 "Sleep, little tulip, sleepT' 
 
Zbc Storft 
 
 Last night the Stork came stalking, — 
 
 And, Stork, beneath your wing 
 Lay, lapped in dreamless slumber, 
 
 The tiniest little thing ! 
 From Babyland, out yonder 
 
 Beside a silver sea, 
 You brought a priceless treasure 
 
 As gift to mine and me ! 
 
 Last night my dear one listened, — 
 
 And, wife, you knew the cry, — 
 The dear old Stork has sought our home 
 
 A many times gone by ! 
 And in your gentle bosom 
 
 I found the pretty thing 
 That from the realm out yonder 
 
 Our friend the Stork did bring. 
 
 Last night a babe awakened, — 
 And, babe, how strange and new 
 
 Must seem the home and people 
 The Stork hath brought you to; 
 
 loi 
 
I02 THE STORK 
 
 And yet, methinks you like them, — 
 You neither stare nor weep, 
 
 But closer to my dear one 
 You cuddle, and you sleep I 
 
 Last night my heart grew fonder — 
 
 O happy heart of mine, 
 Sing of the inspirations 
 
 That round my pathway shine ! 
 And sing your sweetest love-song 
 
 To this dear, nestling wee 
 The Stork from 'Way-Out-Yonder 
 
 Hath brought to mine and me I 
 
Play that you are a mother dear, 
 
 And play that papa is your beau; 
 Play that we sit in the corner here, 
 
 Just as we used to, long ago. 
 Playing so, we lovers two 
 
 Are just as happy as we can be, 
 And I'll say "I love you" to you. 
 
 And you say "I love you'* to me I 
 *'I love you" we both shall say, 
 All in earnest and all in play. 
 
 Or, play that you are that other one 
 
 That some time came, and went away; 
 And play that the light of years agone 
 
 Stole into my heart again to-day ! 
 Playing that you are the one I knew 
 
 In the days that never again may be, 
 I'll say "I love you" to you. 
 
 And you say "I love you" to me ! 
 "I love you !" my heart shall say 
 
 To the ghost of the past come back to-day ! 
 
 103 
 
I04 
 
 AT PLAY 
 
 Or, play that you sought this nestling-place 
 
 For your own sweet self, with that dual 
 guise 
 Of your pretty mother in your face 
 
 And the look of that other in your eyes I 
 So the dear old loves shall live anew 
 
 As I hold my darling on my knee, 
 And I'll say "I love you" to you, 
 
 And you say "I love you" to me I 
 Oh, many a strange, true thing we say 
 And do cwhen we pretend to play I 
 
Zbc Bnalt0b /iDtnce pie 
 
 The last of the Thanksgiving mince pie is 
 gone; its end was as mysterious and porten- 
 tous as its beginning and its career. I refer, 
 of course, to the London mince pie, the occult 
 conglomeration which we were beguiled into 
 buying last November, while we labored under 
 the delusion that to buy a mince pie was the 
 patriotic thing for an American to do. 
 
 I remember the day distinctly; it was one of 
 those cheerful, typical, foggy, suicidal days in 
 which this London climate abounds. We 
 were sitting in a drawing-room in the Quad- 
 rant. The slavey had just replenished the 
 grate fire, and Colonel Reid, Cowen, Harry 
 Dam, Tom Fielders, and I, — as superb a 
 quintet of dyspeptics as ever discussed high 
 food and hot biscuits, — gathered around the 
 hearthstone and gazed into the flickering 
 flames and talked about Thanksgiving din- 
 ner. It was agreed that turkey should be 
 
 the piece de resistance, and we rejoiced to 
 
 105 
 
io6 THE ENGLISH MINCE PIE 
 
 hear Tom Fielders say that he had heard 
 Ralph Meeker tell somebody else that Leigh 
 Lynch had told him that genuine American 
 cranberries could be bought at a shop under 
 Egyptian Hall in Piccadilly. With turkey 
 and genuine cranberry sauce we should be 
 happy, and with that combination we should 
 have been satisfied. But in an unlucky mo- 
 ment I ventured the suggestion that without a 
 mince pie to symmetrize it no Thanksgiving 
 dinner could be complete. A profound grunt 
 of approval all around assured me that I had 
 ihe sympathy of the entire community. 
 
 "And I know where mince pies can be 
 bought," said Harry Dam. "I understand 
 that there is but one caterer's in town where 
 satisfaction is guaranteed. That is Buszard's 
 in Oxford Street." 
 
 "I do not know that I particularly fancy that 
 name," remarked Colonel Reid. "Buszard is 
 a significant, not to say an ominous, name; as 
 one who has always been loyal to the eagle, I 
 object to Bdszard." 
 
 "But really, colonel," expostulated Tom 
 Fielders, "Buszard is the swell caterer of Lon- 
 don; for years he has pandered to the royal 
 household and to the nobility, and his shop is 
 regarded hereabouts as the Mecca for all in 
 
THE ENGLISH MINCE PIE 107 
 
 quest of sapid, succulent, and savory viands. 
 If anybody cap make a mince pie, Buszard 
 can." 
 
 The result of the talk was that we all became 
 highly enthusiastic on the subject of Buszard's 
 mince pies, and when Cowen and I left the 
 cheerful bachelor chambers we proceeded 
 forthwith to Buszard's shop, a somewhat pre- 
 tentious shop in Oxford Street just off Regent. 
 The show-windows were filled with divers- 
 colored confections, the tables were covered 
 with truculent-looking puddings and cakes, 
 and the atmosphere was laden with a per- 
 fume as of boiling maple sap. 
 
 It was our misfortune to fall into the 
 clutches of a sallow-faced young man wearing 
 a checkered suit of clothes, a dark-red neck- 
 tie, and a head of coarse black hair larded 
 down with odoriferous bear's grease — one of 
 those garrulous young chappies who know it 
 all and tell more. He assured us that "we" 
 could make a mince pie — he called it ^poy"; he 
 knew what a genuine American mince pie was, 
 had often made them for Americans, and 
 would guarantee entire satisfaction. Miser- 
 able dupes that we were, we trusted the 
 loquacious cockney How much would a pie, a 
 genuine American mince pie, with real apples 
 
io8 THE ENGLISH MINCE PIE 
 
 and real meat in it, cost us? We were some- 
 what startled when he answered half a guinea. 
 We told him that this was simple extor- 
 tion — nay, the equivalent of $2.65 for a mince 
 pie was unadulterated robbery ! Why, in Pot- 
 ter Palmer's conscienceless restaurant in Chi- 
 cago the finest native mince pie cost only $1, 
 and that included melted cheese on top, and a 
 genuine Senegambian prince at the side to 
 serve it on hot plates. We rebelled against 
 half a guinea as a man would take up arms 
 against the iron heel of oppression. The 
 garrulous young cockney then said that "we" 
 would consult with the manager, and he dis- 
 appeared through a swinging door, only to 
 return presently to announce sententiously 
 that seven and six was the very, very lowest 
 price for which the pie could be provided. 
 Fancying that we could do no better, we paid 
 the low-browed robber that amount of money 
 and bade him send the pie to our lodgings 
 upon Thanksgiving afternoon, not later than 
 three o'clock, Greenwich time. 
 
 At the appointed hour, surely enough, the 
 goods (you see I speak cautiously) were deliv- 
 ered in an oblong box, which, upon examina- 
 tion, was found to contain a dish, and in the 
 dish was the pie, or rather a pie, still warm. 
 
THE ENGLISH MINCE PIE 109 
 
 The dish was oval In shape, ten inches long 
 and four inches in depth. 
 
 I asked the servant if she knew what it was. 
 
 "Yes, sir; it's a Yorkshire pudding," said she. 
 
 "Put it away," said I. 
 
 Billy Knox and J. L. Sclanders, old news- 
 paper co-workers from Chicago, dined with us. 
 
 "Now, boys," said I, at last, "I've got a sur- 
 prise for you"; and the servant produced the 
 pie — Buszard's mince "poy." 
 
 "I thought we were going to have mince 
 pie ?" said Cowen. 
 
 "So we are," said I. 
 
 "Ah, it's to come later?" 
 
 "No, this is it." 
 
 "That isn't a mince pie," expostulated 
 Cowen; "that's a pudding. Nobody ever saw 
 a mince pie served in a bowl !" 
 
 "But it is a mince pie," I insisted. "The 
 leading London caterer made it; and it must 
 be good." 
 
 I served the pie liberally. I did not dare 
 eat any myself, for the doctor had forbidden 
 that sort of thing. Then, too, on Thanksgiv- 
 ing day one can afford to be princely even in 
 doling out pie at seven and six. 
 
 The pie had a thick double crust (by which 
 I mean an upper and a lower crust), and be- 
 
no THE ENGLISH MINCE PIE 
 
 tween these crusts {id est, supra et infra) lay a 
 black mass of lovely indigestible matter that 
 smelled like a barber's shop. 
 
 Three inches of mince meat; think of it, 
 ye housewives of my beloved native land ! 
 
 I felt indignant when I saw that our guests 
 did not devour the viand with voracity. I 
 knew that the pie was good; it must be good, 
 it had to be good, at seven and six ! 
 
 "I think you must be mistaken about this," 
 said my friend Knox, cautiously. "I have 
 eaten mince pie all my life, — mince, pie in the 
 sacred groves of the Des Plalnes, mince pie in 
 the academic shades of Evanston, mince pie 
 in the black-jack thickets of Egypt, and mince 
 pie in the subterranean recesses of the Boston 
 Oyster-house, — but never, no, never before, 
 have I tasted mince pie like this mince pie. 
 As I figure It, without prejudice, this is more 
 like a fruit pudding." 
 
 My friend Sclanders said that upon one 
 occasion, while he was a student in Munich, he 
 had seen and partaken of a dish that quite 
 resembled this particular dish; as he recol- 
 lected, it was called Splutterungenleischlied- 
 gehabten. As for my old chum, Cowen, he 
 had done (with every possible variation) all the 
 territory between Buenavista, Colorado, and 
 
THE ENGLISH MINCE PIE m 
 
 Vienna, Austria, and he had never before met 
 up with mince pie the Hke of this mince pie. 
 
 To make a long story short, what was left 
 of Buszard's mince pie was set away in a corner 
 of the cupboard, and Buszard's name was fre- 
 quently but not felicitously mentioned. 
 
 In some Avay or other it got noised about 
 that we had a genuine American mince pie in 
 the house, and forthwith the Americans began 
 to flock in upon us from every side. Ralph 
 Meeker and his wife were amongst the first. 
 Having had dyspepsia twenty years, Ralph 
 was a mince-pie virtuoso. He just looked at 
 our mince pie and said: "That's no pie; that's 
 a Scotch bun !" 
 
 J. P. Andrews of Grand Rapids, Mich., went 
 so far as to taste it, and for weeks and weeks 
 afterward he said he felt as if he had a slab 
 of verd-antlque marble in his stomach. 
 
 M. E. Stone tried it, and then (just like 
 him !) he posted off to Scotland Yard and 
 hired a gang of detectives to find some clew as 
 to what it was. 
 
 John C. New took a piece of it to his office 
 with him, and used it for a paper-weight. 
 Will Eaton thought that the substratum of 
 the pie looked a good deal like the vein of a 
 coal-mhiC \\c once owned out in Iowa. And so, 
 
112 THE ENGLISH MINCE PIE 
 
 in one way and another, they all heaped con- 
 tumely and obloquy upon that pie — that mince 
 pie for which I had paid Buszard seven and 
 six. 
 
 Once — now, this is a confession I have never 
 made before — once, I say, I arose in the mid- 
 dle of the night and stole to the cupboard and 
 partook of that swarthy pie. I was curious to 
 determine for myself whether the pie merited 
 all this ribald abuse, and whether a serious 
 injustice was not being done to Buszard. The 
 result of my investigation was complimentary 
 neither to the pie nor to its compounder. 
 
 We then went back to bed, — the piece of pie 
 and I, — and in dreams I saw a gaunt figure rise 
 from a dark corner and approach me with 
 the words: "At last, son-in-law, I have thee in 
 my power." Next morning we arose, — that 
 piece of pie and I, — and I was pale, exhausted, 
 trembling. We kept company many moons. 
 Had It not been for my wife, a most frugal 
 soul, I should have thrown the remnants of 
 the pie away, but my wife represented that it 
 would be wicked to indulge in such extrav- 
 agance. As it was, I did upon one occasion 
 cast some bits of the pie to the sparrows that 
 clustered, shiveringly and appealingly, upon 
 the rail of the window balcony. It was 
 
THE ENGLISH MINCE PIE 113 
 
 pathetic to see each hungry little creature hop 
 down and pick up a crumb of the pie and hold 
 it in his mouth and roll his eyes back and 
 think, then sneeze, drop the crumb, and fly 
 away, never to return. 
 
 A week ago last Sunday the dolorous tones 
 of a hand-organ came up from the [street 
 below. A poor woman, wretchedly clad, was 
 grinding out the melancholy tune of. "Shall 
 We Gather at the River?" It was a dreary, 
 raw, chilly day. The woman looked pinched 
 and hungry. Her husband, as ill clad as she, 
 was wandering from house to house, beseech- 
 ing pennies. 
 
 "My dear," said I to wife, "would it not be 
 wise to give the rest of our mince pie to this 
 poor woman, who is perhaps the mother of 
 starving little ones ?" 
 
 That finish caught my wife. "Of course," 
 said she. "I knew we'd put the pie to some 
 good use if we only kept it till the proper 
 time came." 
 
 So I gathered up the remnants of the pie 
 and carried them down-stairs to the poor 
 woman. The squalid creature seized them 
 eagerly and gulped them down with the 
 ferocity of a famished wolf. "Grazia, sig- 
 norel" I heard her say, as I walked away. 
 
114 THE ENGLISH MINCE PIE 
 
 Her eyes were full of the tears of gratitude. 
 I felt that I had done a worthy deed. 
 
 A few days later I chanced to meet Prof. 
 Robert Aylmer, a distinguished chemist from 
 Boston. He told me that a friend of his (Col. 
 John C. Reid) had sent him for chemical 
 analysis a specimen of English mince-meat, 
 taken from a mince pie compounded by one 
 Crow, an eminent London baker. 
 
 "You mean Buszard,'* said L 
 
 "That may have been the name/* said the 
 professor, "At any rate, I analyzed the speci- 
 men and found it a curious compound, quite 
 unlike our American mince pie. The con- 
 stituent parts of this composition were, as I 
 remember, as follows: 
 
 Lemon peel lo 
 
 Orange peel, ...,...,,.... lo 
 
 Citron 5 
 
 Pineapple rind 15 
 
 Almonds 2 
 
 Caraway seeds. . , . , 8 
 
 Cocoanut 5 
 
 Green figs 2 
 
 Brussels sprouts 10 
 
 Prunes 3 
 
 Epp's cocoa, 2 
 
 Scotch whiskey 3 
 
 Stilton cheese 5 
 
 Pears* soap __20 
 
THE ENGLISH MINCE PIE 
 
 T15 
 
 There was a slight trace of Thames water, but 
 I deemed it hardly sufficient to be noticed. 
 Altogether, the compound is a baleful one — 
 as deadly, I think, as the breath of the vam- 
 pire or the shade of the upas. I have sent a 
 specimen to Professor Pasteur, in order that 
 he may apply the biologic test, to determine if 
 there be in it a germ likely to induce an epi- 
 demic." 
 
 So much for the scientific view of the Ameri- 
 can mince pie as concocted by Buszard, the 
 swell caterer of London. I am no scientist; I 
 am simply a modest chronicler of passing 
 events. 
 
 Last Sunday I sat in this same chair, here in 
 these humble lodgings, when suddenly came 
 up from the street below the voice of that 
 old, dolorous tune, "Shall We Gather at the 
 River?" 
 
 "It is the poor swart daughter of Italy," I 
 sighed; "she has come back gaunt and hun- 
 gry. I would that I had food for her." 
 
 Overflowing as to my heart with pity, I went 
 to the window and looked down at the sorry 
 wretch grinding that wheezy organ. It was 
 the husband, tattered and wan and shivering. 
 He was alone, and upon his left arm he wore 
 a rude strip of black crape. 
 
The poet has said that in the springtime the 
 young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of 
 love. But there is many a young man in this 
 great world of ours who turns his vernal atten- 
 tion to many an object other than love — would 
 that he did not ! How shall we describe him ? 
 Is he not indescribable, inexpressible, ineffa- 
 ble? He is known the world over in every 
 truly happy home as **Our Boy," and, in spite 
 of his deviltry, and in spite of the worry he 
 occasions us, who is there among us that will 
 not say amen to the sentiment, "God bless 
 him" ? 
 
 In this mild, malarious weather of spring 
 "Our Boy" arises early of a morning. He 
 has rested well; a dreamless sleep has pre- 
 pared him for another day of conquest. He 
 begins his diurnal career by awakening the 
 whole household. Perchance he drives his 
 velocipede up and down the back hall; may be 
 he enlivens the situation in the kitchen with a 
 rough-and-tumble battle with the argus-eyed 
 
OUR BOY 
 
 117 
 
 hired girl, whose blessed prerogative it is to 
 defend the family sugar bowl against all 
 depredatory comers. One thing can be de- 
 pended upon: "Our Boy" will let everybody 
 within hearing distance know that he then and 
 there is on earth and has come to stay. 
 Another thing can be depended upon: "Our 
 Boy" will put on his best clothes instead of his 
 every-day clothes unless his sagacious mother 
 has sequestered those best clothes in one of 
 those mysterious hiding places which woman- 
 kind is so fertile in devising. "Our Boy" is 
 wondrously proud of his best trousers — proud 
 of them until he gets them on. When he once 
 gets them on he seems to be equally proud of 
 ruining them as fast as he can. 
 
 The game of marbles is an invention of the 
 devil in the interest of tailors and to the dis- 
 traction of mothers. The morning and the 
 evening of the first day constitute the pathetic 
 history of many a knickerbocker at this season 
 of the year. A plague on the "mibs," the 
 "alleys," the ''chinas," the "agates," the "bran- 
 dies," the "flints," Jhe "catseyes," and the "car- 
 nelians," we say! Why is it that the boys of 
 to-day are not as proper, as neat, and as 
 orderly as their fathers used to be when they 
 were boys? Another deligrht which engages 
 
xi8 OUR BOY 
 
 "Our Boy" just now is that of fishing. Well, 
 may be his piscatorial penchant is inherited; 
 there is certainly no pleasanter nor more 
 harmless employment than that of angling. 
 But the line should be drawn at the practice 
 which "Our Boy'* makes of wading around In 
 two feet of water, netting minnows two Inches 
 long. This practice would seem to prove to 
 our complete satisfaction that our boys are de- 
 generate. 
 
 But what adds insult to injury is the habit 
 which "Our Boy" has fallen into of bringing 
 his wretched little fish home in oyster cans 
 and dumping them for permanent abode in 
 the family bath-tub. It is a mighty cheerful 
 thing for a father to march into a bath-room 
 for purposes of ablution, only to find the tub 
 half full of wriggling minnows. To add to his 
 vexation, these miserable fish lie close to the 
 top of the water and thrust their heads half 
 out and mouth at one as If mocking him. 
 Wretched creatures, we would the pickerel 
 had you all I 
 
 But before all marbles that roll and all fish 
 that swim, "Our Boy" loves the dog; the 
 measlier the dog the more lovable is he in the 
 eyes of "Our Boy." Why is it, we wonder — 
 can anybody explain it — that "Our Boy's" dog 
 
OUR BOY 
 
 H9 
 
 is always a tramp and always of the feminine 
 gender? Another thing that excites our won- 
 der is the universal fact that "Our Boy" is 
 hardly able to carry his spelling book to and 
 from school, and yet thinks nothing of lugging 
 a dog four miles and a half. "Our Boy" may 
 not weigh forty-five pounds, but every blessed 
 day of his life he comes into the house carry- 
 ing a 125-pound dog under his arm with ease 
 and with enthusiasm. 
 
 And the beauty of it is that the miserable, 
 ore-eyed, mangy cur seems to enjoy "Our Boy" 
 quite as much as "Our Boy" enjoys the cur. 
 Well, that's where the cur's head is level, for 
 the cur not only gets the best ediblesjn the 
 house but is decorated with the choicest rib- 
 bons "Our Boy" can find in his mother's 
 bureau, and is honored with a name wholly 
 unfitte to one of the cur's sex. 
 
 So it is that "Our Boy" lives and moves and 
 has his being. And between his marbles and 
 his fish and his wretched dogs and his thou- 
 sand other grotesque delights, he worries his 
 poor old father and his patient mother nearly 
 into their untimely graves. Yet when the 
 day is done and "Our Boy" goes to that 
 dreamless sleep of his, who, seeing the inno- 
 cent beauty of his slumbering face, does not 
 
120 OUR BOY 
 
 forget the care he has brought and think only 
 of the music and the sunshine of his little 
 life ? 
 
 **Ah, there he lies — so peaceful like — - 
 God bless his golden headi 
 We quite forgive the little tyke 
 For the ill he's done or said/' 
 
An overweening love for brute pets seems to 
 be one of the sure signs of the degeneracy of 
 the rising generation. We do not remember 
 that in the halcyon days of youth we were 
 addicted to any of the monstrosities which, 
 within the last two years, v/e have found in 
 the possession of the three boys who are 
 bringing our scant hair in sorrow to the grave. 
 In fact, when we compare the exceeding pro- 
 priety of our own youth with the shocking 
 depravity of our progeny, we are disposed to 
 think that our civilization is a failure. 
 
 We now desire to say a few words on the 
 subject of rabbits. 
 
 About ten days ago the three boys above 
 referred to came back from a foraging expe- 
 dition with a rabbit — a sort of brindle rabbit 
 with albino eyes and a tail like a cottonwood 
 blov/. We represented to the boys that, with 
 a lame chicken dodging around in the front 
 chamber, the bath-tub full of minnows and 
 crawfish, a brood of unfledged chimney-swal- 
 lows in the lower drawer of their mother's 
 
 121 
 
122 THREE BOYS 
 
 bureau, a pouter-pigeon roosting on our folio 
 edition of Bunyan, and a disreputable dog 
 sprawling about on the furniture, a once happy 
 home had been made about as miserable as it 
 could stand. 
 
 "But it's a wabbit 1 oh, such a pooty wab- 
 bitl" 
 
 Finally — we wonder why it is that a mother 
 always takes up her boys — ^finally, we say, all 
 the parties concerned agreed to a compromise 
 under the terms of which the lame chicken, the 
 crawfish, the minnows, the pouter-pigeon, and 
 the chimney-swallows were to go, incon- 
 tinently, and the "wabbit" was to remain. 
 The bo3^s were to have the "wabbit,*' and 
 nothing else whatever — not even tickets to the 
 circus 1 So the "wabbit'* was turned loose in 
 the back yard and for a considerable time was 
 seen no more. Next morning a small, round, 
 dark hole burrowed diagonally into the rich, 
 loamy earth of the back yard indicated that the 
 rabbit had retired temporarily from civiliza- 
 tion. About three times a day the boys used 
 to go out in the back yard and empty water 
 and preserves and cake into the hole, in order 
 that the rabbit might not perish of thirst or 
 starvation. 
 
 In about two days the house began to settle 
 
THREE BOYS 123 
 
 and John Root, whom we summoned to inves- 
 tigate the proceedings professionally, was 
 greatly puzzled. He found the foundation of 
 the house entirely adequate, yet it was plain 
 that the foundation was undermined and was 
 sinking. Next day the northwest corner of a 
 neighbor's house sunk fourteen inches, giving 
 the beholder the impression that the house 
 was located on a side hill; it made a person 
 seasick to look at it. 
 
 Presently other houses in the block began to 
 settle, and by this time there was a general 
 alarm. 
 
 Mr. Root called a consultation of the lead- 
 ing experts, but there was a diversity of opin- 
 ion as to the causes of this remarkable 
 deflection of the earth's surface. The most 
 plausible theory seemed to be that a secret 
 subterranean eddy* or whirlpool had crept in 
 from the lake and was slowly crumbling the 
 earth from under the foundations of the struc- 
 tures in question. It was determined to apply 
 a test, and accordingly men w^ere set to work 
 with a long steel borer — the kind that is used 
 for boring wells in the prairie. After boring 
 half a day the men pulled up the auger in the 
 expectation that a fountain of crystal lake 
 water would bubble forth. But instead of 
 
124 THREE BOYS 
 
 water what should issue from the earth but 
 that rabbit, followed by the smaller rabbits, 
 all with albino eyes and tails like cottonwood 
 blows ! 
 
 It now appeared to Mr. Root and to his 
 syndicate of fellow-scientists (and it was 
 equally clear to us) that these rabbits had 
 caused the mischief; that, observing their 
 inscrutable instincts, they had burrowed hither 
 and thither, up and down, rectangularly and 
 catacorner^d, until, as a result of their diabol- 
 ical industry, they had undermined the whole 
 neighborhood with a network, a catacomb, a 
 labyrinth of subterranean passages, avenues, 
 and corridors. 
 
 "Our wabbit! our wabbit! But where did 
 all dose little wabbits come from ?" 
 
 That is the question that we have been 
 unable to answer. 
 
 We never supposed, until we saw it demon- 
 strated, that merely by planting a rabbit (as you 
 would a potato) you could eventually harvest 
 a large, an awful, crop of rabbits I 
 
XTbe /iDotber^in*»%aw 
 
 Not a day passes that we do not find in the 
 column of our exchanges many sarcastic flings 
 at one of the most useful of human Institu- 
 tions — viz., the mother-in-law. It has always 
 been an occasion of surprise and of chagrin to 
 us that men of seeming intelligence and heart 
 could so debase their manliness as to jeer at 
 and sneer at one of the worthiest classes of 
 womankind. We expect low, coarse wit of 
 the negro minstrel, and we are not amazed 
 that within the narrow limitations Imposed by 
 his lack of intelligence and of delicacy the 
 negro minstrel should utilize the mother-in- 
 law as the favorite butt of his vulgar ridicule. 
 But when we see this tendency exhibited by 
 men w^ho pretend to more elevated purposes — 
 by those who claim to be in a peculiar sense 
 educators of the people and molders of public 
 opinion — what wonder that the spectacle ex- 
 cites our disgust and execration. 
 
 A vast majority of men, speaking from per- 
 sonal experience, would say with us, we think, 
 
 that the mother-in-law is one of the most wel- 
 
 125 
 
i^ THE MOTHER-IN-LAW 
 
 come, most convenient, and most blessed 
 features in social and domestic economy. 
 Surely there is no good man that, thinking of 
 his own mother and of his ov/n grandmother, 
 will not invoke God's sweetest blessings on 
 the dear old lady who is his wife's mother and 
 his children's grandma. 
 
 Shame upon us if we were to defame this 
 patient, kindly friend ! 
 
 Has she not given us the woman who makes 
 life worth Jiving? Has she not always been 
 ready to help us in every struggle, to comfort 
 us in every affliction, and to lighten the bur- 
 den of domestic cares? Has she not taught 
 us by her prudent counsels how to escape 
 many dangers and to avoid many embarrass- 
 ments? Has she not exemplified in all her 
 associations v/ith us the purity, the simplicity, 
 and the patience of her character, and the dis- 
 interestedness and fullness of her joy? 
 
 Now, when it comes to the father-in-law, we 
 might sing in a different key. How does it 
 happen that these sarcastic penny-a-liners do 
 not devote their questionable talents to a dis- 
 cussion of the father-in-law — the cranky, 
 wheezy, gummy old gentleman who sits 
 around on the front stoop in the sun all day 
 and snores like a planing-mill all night? 
 
THE MOTHER-IN-LAW 127 
 
 What does he do for the family? What does 
 he know about sick children? Have you ever 
 seen hint teaching your small boy how to 
 sharpen a slate pencil with the bread-knife? 
 Has he inked new eyes on your little girFs rag 
 baby ? Did he ever put patches on the knees 
 of the boys' trousers and keep the family 
 darning cleaned up to date? Has he ever 
 gone to the kitchen and cooked a meal of 
 victuals whenever the hired girl flounced off 
 in a rage? Has he ever done anything but 
 sodger around like a dog with a sore ear, and 
 talk about his liver and complain of the 
 degeneracy of the times ? 
 
 Yet you witlings humor this pesky old var- 
 mint ; why? Because you hope to get value 
 received when his will is probated. Venal 
 wretches that you are, you tolerate and flat- 
 ter this mumbling nuisance while you execrate 
 the dear old saint who helps you to hold up 
 your hands against the world. 
 
 Always busy yet always cheerful, continually 
 annoyed yet always patient, her useful life 
 should have oi;r gratitude, our praise, our 
 emulation. She is content with little, and so 
 used has she become to work that if she is ever 
 disposed to rebel it is against the promise of 
 rest in eternity 
 
tCbe XEtadedte of Slaine 
 
 Yester night it befell that our joyous citoyzen, 
 McVicker hight, let crie a play wherein was 
 given the mournful histories of Elaine, the 
 faire maide of Astolate, the whyche hath been 
 done into goodly Englishe verse by the 
 renoned minstrell Lathrop and the plaier 
 Harry Edouards. Now wit ye well that there 
 was a full merrie concourse of peoples from 
 every part, comyng with plaisaunt conversa- 
 tions and great cheere for to see and to heere 
 these proper histories whereof we spoke. In 
 sooth, never hath ther ben so vast and so 
 goodly a companie, a many ladies and their 
 knights dight right fairly and making joyous 
 discourse. But anone it was mervail to see 
 how that the high and mighty gentles did wepe 
 for the sorrowes of Elaine! It maketh the 
 herte glad to see the noble porke packers and 
 the larde refiners and eke the bourde of trade 
 men to mone and make great dole for the love 
 of a faire maide that dyed full ten hundred 
 
 yeres syne. But certes, ther ben soche pitty in 
 
 128 
 
THE TRAGEDIE OF ELAINE 129 
 
 Chicago that by as moche soap as a man hath 
 by so moche more doth it beseem him to make 
 ado when that he is so minded. So it was, 
 yester night, that the most grievous weping 
 was made by the gentles with the bigest wal- 
 lets and the bigest dimondes. And ther ben 
 one pore man that ben trown out for that he 
 did moe weping than he had a right to do on 
 a cheape ticket. 
 
 Whiles they let do the first intermission we 
 asket the full riche linseed oil dealer, Beasley 
 hight, how he was minded towards the play. 
 
 "Marry come up with a wannion," quoth he. 
 **I wend it ben a good show, but not as good 
 as Camille." 
 
 "Gadzooks," sales the porke packer, ycleped 
 Bosbyshell, "this ben rot! But that I wist 
 they wold let do a society play, be Cokis 
 blode» I had gone to the Arabian Nights 
 instead.'* 
 
 Touching the same, a haut member of the 
 West Syde Browning club sayed that one 
 rattling ballay colde do moe business in Chi- 
 cago than thrice seven plays that be made of 
 poesie. 
 
 Then whiles the folk did pass full merrily 
 to and fro, saying wordes of cheere, the 
 orchestra did make musick as ill beseemed the 
 
I30 THE TRAGEDIE OF ELAINE 
 
 time and did play soche tunes as "Sally in Our 
 Alley," "Fm a Dude," "She wears a dotted 
 muslin, tra, la, la," and the like. Soothly this 
 orchestra ben great mervail and hath no peer 
 nowhere. Ther ben 12 men in that orchestra 
 and they let do one tune in 12 keys, the 
 whyche maketh our bach ake. 
 
 Now of this same Elaine of Astolate hath 
 divers persons written, of which the most 
 renoned ben Sr, Tomas Mallory, knight, and 
 Lord Alfred Tennyson, bart., but never hath 
 none, sithence the daies wherein she made her 
 grievous end, told of that maide and her 
 unhappy love so plaisauntly as hath these 
 same the whyche did make this play. When 
 that this play was first let do in New York, 
 ther ben critics that did despite it sore, for 
 that they said the play was taken from Lord 
 Tennyson, and ther ben one critic that did 
 shew how that moche was therefrom, whereat 
 all folk laughen loud when that the true 
 author shewed this to be not no soche thing, 
 but that hee himself writ these same very 
 words. Of this hath a minstrell made this 
 proper sonet: 
 
 A New York critic, Winter bight, 
 Upon a time did sore despite 
 A play & him as he wrote it; 
 
THE TRAGEDIE OF EbAlNE 
 
 He set a straw man on a hill; 
 Then, couching his prodigious quill^ 
 Most grievously he smote it. 
 
 "Meseemeth, 'neath that poet guise 
 The baseborn caitiff Lathrop lies — 
 
 And he's the prey I've layed for; 
 & it behooves me now to fare 
 Against that prey and raise its hair — 
 
 Syn that is what I'm paid for." 
 
 So up & down that critic rased 
 
 & backe & foorth he foyned & trased 
 
 & monstrous strookes deliverd; 
 Till that, from hacking at that straw 
 In direst wise you ever saw, 
 
 His quill was all to-shivered. 
 
 & when he made an end at last 
 
 & when that man of straw was brast 
 
 Like so much straw asunder, 
 Loud laughen peoples all to see 
 That critic angred for that he 
 
 Had made a grewsome blunder. 
 
 It was not Lathrop that he slew, 
 Though that was v/hat he meant to do 
 
 With his egregious feather; 
 *Twas Tennyson he slew so bold — 
 Then was that critic, we ben told. 
 
 Beset by wintry weather. 
 
 131 
 
132 
 
 THE TRAGEDIE OF ELAINE 
 
 Now in this play whereof we speke ther ben 
 thirteen actours — to-wit, Kyng Arthure, sir 
 Bernard, the lord of Astolate; sir Torre, sir 
 Launcelot, sir Lavaine, a dombe man; sir 
 Gawaine, a holie munck; ' a harper, queene 
 Guenever, Elaine, the maide of Astolate; 
 Llanyed, and Roselle. And ther ben in the 
 play five partes, most faire accoutred, of whych 
 the first ben in a hall of Arthure's court 
 wherein the full evill queen doth give her rede 
 unto sir Launcelot that he fare to the jousts at 
 Astolate. Then come we to Astolate where 
 ther ben a feast to sir Launcelot with great 
 cheere, and then doth Elaine, the lilly maide, 
 be assotted upon sir Launcelot, nor knew no 
 maide never befo none soche love like as this 
 love of the faire maide for sir Launcelot. But, 
 soothly, when that she wolde have him unto 
 her husbande he sayeth her nay, for that he 
 loves the queene nor none other. "Then 
 shall I die, y-wise," saies shee; and, when that 
 he ben gone, she ma,keth her prayers and she 
 lets write a letter to sir Launcelot that he give 
 the masse peny and that he pray some prayer 
 more or lesse for her soule, and so shee dies. 
 Right nobly were these things said and done, 
 save and excepting onely that the damosel 
 May Brooking ill knew her lines and did rase 
 
THE TRAGEDIE OF ELAINE 133 
 
 and trase about the stage like unto a steere in 
 a box carre. But of yonge Salvini truly colde 
 it be said that he was sir Launcelot in look 
 and werde and deede. And passing faire was 
 the queen Guenever that the damosel Marie 
 Burroughs did play. But a wicked queene 
 shee was, and full of evill redes. Verily, it is 
 great mervail how that a queene colde be so 
 evill when ther ben no bourde of trade men 
 around. 
 
 In especiall did the peoples all speke to the 
 praise of the lady Anne Russell, for that she 
 did with soche mekeness and humility and 
 gentlenesse pourtray the sorrowes of the 
 maide of Astolate. Soothly had the maide 
 hersell been there and had shee lived her 
 wofull life before them all, ther had been no 
 greater mone nor soche dole of weping. And 
 when that the barge bearing the corpse of the 
 gentle maide sweept downe the flood with that 
 dombe man at the helme, then wit ye well the 
 folk fell all to moning full sore and many ther 
 ben of the ladies had like to swound. Yet it 
 repented none to have come thither and to 
 have heerd agen the mournful histories of the 
 faire Elaine, for this play teecheth us how 
 deare a thing is woman's love and how that 
 none fear of death can shake it — nay, that she 
 
^34 
 
 THE TRAGEDIE OF ELAINE 
 
 had liefer die than abate one jot or title 
 thereof. And in it all ther ben tendernesse 
 and herte and teres, and who shall speke the 
 full goodness of these things? For as the 
 herte ben the sanctuary of men, so can ther 
 never be no moe swete and holie thing than 
 that whyche toucheth the herte and openeth 
 the dores thereof and entereth therein to find 
 lodgment. 
 
 Godde graunt us evereche grace to hold 
 steadfastly unto this beleeve, and Godde make 
 us men all worthy of that love whyche, as the 
 story of Elaine doth shew, despiseth death 
 and endureth all things for our sake. 
 
If 
 
 Don't take on so, Hiram, 
 
 But do what you're told to do; 
 It's fair to suppose that yer mother knows 
 
 A heap sight more than you. 
 I'll allow that sometimes her way 
 
 Don't seem the wisest, quite; 
 But the easiest way, 
 When she's had her say, 
 
 Is to reckon your mother is right. 
 
 Courted her ten long winters — 
 
 Saw her to singin' school — 
 When she went down one spell to town, 
 
 I cried like a dumed ol' fool ; 
 Got mad at the boys for callin' 
 
 When I sparked her Sunday night, 
 But she said she knew 
 A thing or two, 
 
 And I reckoned your mother wuz right. 
 
 I courted till I wuz aging 
 
 And she wuz past her prime — 
 
 I'd have died, I guess, if she hadn't said yes 
 When I popped f'r the hundreth time; 
 
 135 
 
136 MR. BILLINGS OF LOUISVILLE 
 
 Said she*d never have took me 
 If I hadn't stuck so tight — 
 
 Opined that we 
 
 Could never agree, 
 
 And I reckon yer mother wuz right! 
 
 ^^fli 
 
 fS^v. MllinQB of Xoul0villc 
 
 There are times in one's life which one cannot 
 
 forget, 
 And the time I remember's the evening I met 
 A haughty young scion of bluegrass renown 
 Who made my acquaintance while painting the 
 
 tov/n ; 
 A handshake, a cocktail, a smoker, and then 
 Mr. Billings of Louisville touched me for ten. 
 
 There flowed in his brains the blue blood of the 
 
 south 
 And a cynical smile curled his sensuous mouth; 
 But he quoted from Lanier and Poe by the yard, 
 But his purse had been hit by the war, and hit hard ; 
 I felt that he honored and flattered me when 
 Mr. Billings of Louisville touched me for ten. 
 
 I wonder that never again since that night 
 A vision of Billings has hallowed my sight; 
 
THE MIDWAY 137 
 
 I pine for the sound of his voice and thrill 
 That comes with the touch of a ten-dollar bill; 
 I wonder and pine, for — I say it again — 
 Mr. BilHngs of Louisville touched me for ten. 
 
 I've heard of what old Whittier sung of Miss 
 
 Maud— 
 But all such philosophy's nothing but fraud 
 To one who's a bear in Chicago today, 
 With wheat going up and the devil to pay, 
 These words are the saddest of tongue or of pen : 
 "Mr. Billings of Louisville touched me for ten." 
 
 The shades of night were falling fast 
 As through the World's Fair portal passed 
 A certain Adlai Stevenson, 
 Whose bead-like eyes were fixed upon 
 The Midwav. 
 
 He was the very favorite son 
 Of proud, immortal Bloomington; 
 And hankering for forbidden joys, 
 He pined to whoop up with the hoys 
 The Midway. 
 
138 INTER-STATE COMMERCE 
 
 *'Try not those fakes," a stranger said, 
 ''Unless you're hankering to be bled!" 
 Alas, these words were all for naught — 
 With still more fervor Adlai sought 
 The Midway. 
 "Beware the divers games of chance. 
 Beware that Street -in-Cairo dance!" 
 All in vain this warning cry, 
 Old Adlai whooped, as he sailed by, 
 The Midway. 
 
 But why pursue this harrowing tale? 
 Far better we should drop the veil 
 Of secrecy before begin 
 His exploits in that Vale of Sin, 
 The Midway. 
 
 f ntet^State Gommetcc 
 
 In 'eighty-six right evil tricks 
 
 Reformers sought to play; 
 They formed a pool wherewith to fool 
 
 The state that had to pay. 
 
 With divers winks and smiles, methinks^ 
 One Rees the pillage planned — 
 
 And as for Clen (that best of men) J 
 He took a quiet hand. 
 
INTER-STATE COMMERCE i39 
 
 He argued so (by which you'll know 
 
 A godly man was he): 
 *' Quite different things are pools from rings — 
 
 This pool's the thing for me! 
 
 ''For years I've been a foe to sin — 
 
 I find it does not pay; 
 I'll share your guile a little while, 
 
 But am not in to stay! 
 
 " When breezes blow and blasts of woe 
 
 Seem threatening every minute, 
 I'll skip the game to save my name 
 
 And swear I wasn't in it!" 
 
 'Twas thus to each his cautious speech 
 
 In godly phrases ran; 
 *' Whate'er betide," the others cried, 
 
 We'll "save the honest man!" 
 
 The crash has come and there are some 
 Who thinks that Clen's to blame, 
 
 But Rees et al, defend their pal, 
 And bless his righteous name. 
 
 And Clen denies and rolls his eyes 
 
 In fashion most dejected; 
 It's hard on Clen when godly men 
 
 Are not from wrath protected. 
 
jfisbetman Jim's Iki^s 
 
 Fisherman Jim lived on a hill 
 
 With his bonnie wife an' his little boys ; 
 'Twuz '* Blow, ye winds, as blow ye will — 
 
 Naught we reck of your cold and noise!" 
 For happy and warm were he an' his, 
 And he handled his kids upon his knee 
 To the song of the sea. 
 
 Fisherman Jim would sail all day, 
 
 But when come night upon the sands 
 His little kids ran from their play, 
 
 Callin' to him an' wavin' their hands; 
 Though the wind was fresh and the sea was 
 high, 
 He'd hear 'em — ^you bet — above the roar 
 Of the waves on the shore! 
 
 Once Fisherman Jim sailed into the bay 
 As the sun went down in a cloudy sky, 
 
 And never a kid saw he at play, 
 
 And he listened in vain for the welcoming cry; 
 In his little house he learned it all. 
 
 And he clinched his hands and he bowed his head — 
 
 "The fever!" they said. 
 
 140 
 
FISHERMAN JIM'S KIDS 141 
 
 'Twuz a pitiful sight for Fisherman Jim ' 
 With them darlin's a-dyin' afore his eyes, 
 
 A-stretchin' their wee hands out to him 
 
 An' a-breakin' his heart with the old-time cries 
 He had heered so often upon the sands, 
 
 For they thought they wuz helpin' his boat ashore. 
 
 Till they spoke no more. 
 
 But Fisherman Jim lived on and on, 
 
 Castin' his nets an' sailin' the sea: 
 As a man will live when his heart is gone 
 
 Fisherman Jim lived hopelessly, 
 Till once in those years they come an* said: 
 ** Old Fisherman Jim is powerful sick — 
 Gk) to him quick!" 
 
 Then Fisherman Jim says he to me: 
 
 "It's a long, long cruise — you — understand — 
 But over beyont the ragin* sea 
 
 I kin see my boys on the shinin' sand 
 Waitin* to help this ol' hulk ashore 
 Just as they used to — ah, mate, you know! 
 In the long ago." 
 
 No, sir! he wuzn't af eared to die; 
 
 For all night long he seemed to see 
 His little boys of the days gone by 
 
 An' to hear sweet voices forgot by me ; 
 ** They're holdin* me by the hands!" he cried. 
 An* so he died. 
 
IRcp* Sam Small an^ IRep. Sam Bona 
 
 I. 
 
 ** I'll never chaw terbacker — ^ncv 
 Nor smoke, nor snuff at alll 
 
 Folks say it is a deadly sin," 
 Says Rev. Samuel Small. 
 
 II. 
 
 But lo! as if in answer to 
 
 His partner's chiding tones: 
 "I shaw terbacker, and I smoke I 
 
 Says Rev. Samuel Jones. 
 
 III. 
 But seeing how the Rev. Small 
 
 And other folks did scoff 
 Because he used the filthy weed, 
 
 The Rev. Jones swore off. 
 
 IV. 
 
 So glory be to Small and Jones, 
 
 Those best of preacher-men, 
 
 And let us pray that, since they're off, 
 
 They'll not swear on again. 
 142 
 

 
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