III! COLUMBIA LIBRARIES OFFSITE AVERY FINE AR"S RESTRICTED AR01 398385 si K? 'G The ConniiftTower Book re & /& ^ r- e~ a^ s <9 // r » .3 A-f-r The Conning Tower Book lEx ICtbrtH SEYMOUR DURST ~t ' 'Tort nteutt/ ^4m/ie.r Je Mays Not that I crave a full accomplished bliss, A finished marble universe; I know In such a timeless wonder I should miss The pulse of power, and the achieving glow. The anguish of the depths, the happy heights, The keen kaleidoscopic undertaking, Bring various joy; the ragged days and nights, The makeshift beauties I can help re-making. The flowing hopes and hungers, and the long Resurgent tides of tears and merriment, These are my paean, my sufficient song, And were my very choral of content, Could I but see before the judgment crash, Clean, still perfection in one frozen flash. IRWIN THE CONNING TOWER BOOK 51 'Pre-eminence I once knew a man Who'd met Duse, (Or so he said) And talked with her; As she came down a windy street He turned a corner Headlong into her. "I am so sorry," Duse said, "I was looking at the stars." My envy of that man Withstood the years Until one day I met a Dane Who'd talked with Henrik Ibsen : This man, with head bowed to the wind, Was walking up a Stockholm way When 'round the corner came the seer, And he plumped into him. And that great mind Whose thinking moved the world Surveyed my friend Through his big eyes And slowly spoke: "Since when have codfish come to land?" 52 THE CONNING TOWER BOOK With all the awe One has for those who've known the great, These two I've envied, Until the other day When blundering round behind the scenes, I stepped upon Pavlowa's toe. MURDOCK PEMBERTON Sense What does he want of beauty, always singing Beauty is something born upon the sea, Or apple-blossoms in the dusk, or rainfall Slanting against a black-green tree? What will he get of beauty, and not take it One of these nights when I am dead of talk? I've seen fellows that he wouldn't look at Tremble if they passed me on a walk. ADUL TIMA THE CONNING TOWER BOOK 53 To Thaliarchus Horace: Book I., Ode 9; "Vides ut alta stet nive candidum" See how the snow lies white on high Soracte ; Scarcely the groaning trees support their burden, And in its grasp the sharp frost holds the waters. Keep out the cold, pile logs upon the fireplace; Bring out the Sabine, four years old, and pour it Into the loving cup, Master of the Revels! Leave to the gods the rest; the stormy ocean Quieted now, the warring winds are silent; Stir not the cypress, nor the ancient ash-trees. Cease then from asking what may come to-morrow; Whatever joys to-day may bring, enjoy them. Spurn not the games, delight of boys, nor dances, Till youth is over, and the white hairs gather. Now in the lanes, and in the public gardens At evenfall soft murmurs are repeated, And the young fellow, at the hour appointed, Darts on the damsel lurking in the corner, From her fair arm the bracelet bright detaches, Or draws the ring from not unwilling fingers. N. 54 THE CONNING TOWER BOOK The Qosmic Urge I have never cared for fashion Or indulged abnormal passion For the hues of socks, the cuts of coats and such ; I have paid but scant adherence To the ethics of appearance For the things I know of dressing aren't much. But there's now a new horizon Looms before me; IVe my eyes on Broader, better, higher, deeper, grander ways; I am reading ads. for clothing (Which till lately I was loathing) And I'm shaving now at nights as well as days. I am growing quite a dandy, Know the nuances in candy, And the places where one's flowers should be bought; And it dawns on me that living Is made happier by giving More attention to the details than I ought. You may think some Maud or Mabel Is the cause that makes me able To devote a brief two hours to sleep each night; You may smile and say it's Cupid Makes this versifier stupid — Let me tell you, Gentle Reader, you are right. P. W. THE CONNING TOWER BOOK 55 The "Daffodils To-day a year ago — I found the record of it this morning On a dirty scrap of paper fallen from a book — There was a call for an ambulance At Mont Richard. I was the "next out", so they sent me, Me and my old flivver, 162. Mont Richard is a god-forsaken chateau Behind a thicket of horrible pine trees, A poste de secours In full view of the German trenches : "Not a hygienic resort", the soldiers say. The sky was gray, the whole world was gray, Except the mud, which was yellow ooze. A few 77s were dropping informally in for tea, When I passed the battered grille and began to climb the gouged road Which winds through that sodden, desolate garden. A territorial with sore, red eyes, tunic, breeches and boots clay-caked, Came out and advised me to wait behind some sort of shelter Till ces ordures began to let up. So I left the ambulance and went toward the ruin of a pavilion — Just the angle of an ivied wall 56 THE CONNING TOWER BOOK Still standing deep in green. And then — I forgot the war, And dying men, And the snarling 77s, And the godless misery of Lorraine! There in the coarse winter-grass, There right at my feet, Was Sun — Spring — Home — A clump of the yellowest blossomed daffodils! 1 think I saw them through tears, Those flowers I love best, Down on my knees touching their sunny heads With home-sick hands. "Dis, V Americain — si tu aimes ca — " My soldier was at my elbow — "Attends — fvais te faire une 'tite chose." Then somewhere he discovered a broken pot, And with his bayonet dug up the daffodils, Earthed them and put them in my arms. "Tiens ca! Moi aussi faime les fleurs, mon pote! Sale guerre, hein?" My blesse died before I got him to the hospital Seven miles off, Poor chap! But the blossomed daffodils beside me — O they were life — Life and Sun and Spring and Home. EMERY POTTLE THE CONNING TOWER BOOK 57 efense Home-defence in our Town! There are flags — A lot of flags. Last night there was a rally at the fire-house And we sang "The Star-Spangled Banner" And adopted the five-unit system Of home defence. There weren't so many phrases I didn't like In the dear old oratorical periods — But there were some. "House to house investigation", "Vigilance Committee", " — Challenged as to whether he was loyal." You know We need to be careful, We need to be very careful On this "disloyalty" business. We need to be very careful Not to turn into Prussians! I was thinking, As I went to sleep, of some florid, puffy old German With walrus moustache and a wholly simple heart And kindly nature. — THE CONNING TOWER BOOK 63 Such as I saw occupying a chair At our village meeting, — I was thinking I saw him stand Shivering in his night-shirt, perfectly bewildered, Sputtering puzzlement to a very earnest band Of saviors of their country Who had run on the heels of rumor With officious zeal Crowded into his house — and were making holy asses Of themselves about him — Or, worse! ... It might be worse — it has been worse — In times of war and excitement, We're not so free as all that From the mad, debased mob-spirit, over here. Men are combustible! Suppose I had risen up in our town-meeting And spoken out and said, "You see before you A conscientious objector! What is your disposition Of such, who conscientiously refuse To fight, on moral grounds?" I say, suppose I had said it. Hisses, I know. Catcalls, I know. Stalwart, red-faced self-righteousness Thundering for applause. These obvious reactions, I know. Would you have used them, Friends, fellow-villagers? As it happens The only convictions I can honestly hold 64 THE CONNING TOWER BOOK Tell me America's hands are clean, her cause Is high, this hour . . . And I am for her Against the Prussian. I have always hated the Prussian in mankind, Bigotry, tyranny, The mailed fist . . . All I say is Let us be very careful to keep our clumsy hands off Men's souls, this hour. Let us be very careful of our Vigilance Committees, Let us be very careful not to turn into Prussians In our righteous house to house investigation. Let us not smirch or befoul the cause of our country Or our flag of freedom! WILLIAM ROSE BENET THE CONNING TOWER BOOK 65 The T>eath of Klondike Jack BY MOTHER GOOSE AND ROBERT W. SERVICE Ten years ago, in the land of snow away on the Yukon track, There lived a man of the red blood clan that the boys called Klondike Jack. And a mile away, where the coyotes howl, on the far side of the hill, There lived a dame with a tale of her own, who was known as Lady Jill. Now, Jack was as tough as a man could be, with a kick in either paw, A single whack from his fist could crack an iron-plated jaw, But sometimes when he had gone away, we'd gossip, as rough men will, Of a strange affair of the long ago, between Jack and Lady Jill. One night, when the snow was smashing down, in One Eye Pete's cafe, Old Jack was holding a drinking bout, and the pace was swift and gay. The fellows sang and swore and drank as only miners can — 66 THE CONNING TOWER BOOK God! That was the time in the frozen slime when a man could be a man! Well, just as the revels reached their height, the door burst open wide. We looked — and there was Lady Jill with an iron pail, outside. And some of us sneered and some of us jeered when she started her harangue, But as she spoke a silence broke all over our rough- necked gang. "It's cold to-night, and the snow's down thick," she said, in ghastly tones ; "You can hear the howl of the wolves that prowl, and the rattle of dead men's bones. But I need some water down at the shack on the other side of the trail; Who'll go through the hell that leads to the well, and help me get a pail?" We all of us dropped our heads and blushed, for we weren't so keen to go Across the hills on a night like this — it was fifty-six below. And Jack stepped out from the crowd of us, and his eyes was blazing red. He went to Jill, and he cried "I will!" "I've got the guts!" he said. She looked at him like she was surprised, but she didn't speak at all. So he followed her straight across the path that leads from One Eye's hall. THE CONNING TOWER BOOK 67 They went away in the dark of the night, and they went without a sound, While we danced about till the lights went out, when we ordered another round. Next morning, as some of us went to work at the bot- tom of the hill, We found the frozen corpse of Jack, and the clay of Lady Jill. And Klondike Jack was a bloody sight that made us strong men quail, For his head was broke from a hefty soak with a club — or an iron pail. Well, I'm not saying what took place, for it isn't my job to tell ; And none of us truly ever knew just how or why Jack fell. But sometimes we think as we sit and drink our little evening swill, That the iron pail was swung by the frail that the boys called Lady Jill. 68 THE CONNING TOWER BOOK Threnody Lilacs blossom just as sweet Now my heart is shattered. If I bowled it down the street, Who's to say it mattered? If there's one that rode away What would I be missing? Lips that taste of tears, they say, Are the best for kissing. Eyes that watch the morning star Seem a little brighter; Arms held out to darkness are Usually whiter. Shall I bar the strolling guest, Bind my brow with willow, When, they say, the empty breast Is the softer pillow? That a heart falls tinkling down, Never think it ceases. Every likely lad in town Gathers up the pieces. If there's one gone whistling by Would I let it grieve me? Let him wonder if I lie; Let him half believe me. DOROTHY PARKER THE CONNING TOWER BOOK 69 The T>oughboy and The Cjob Said the Gob, "Boy howdy! What's the word?" The Doughboy said, "Old son, You got us safe across the pond, and I guess we got the Hun." "Well, we helped to can the Kaiser. Such a nerve he had, that swab I "Bet he's shakin' in his breeches now!" said the Dough- boy to the Gob. "I got a scratch in Belleau Wood," the Doughboy said, "but here's The answer." And he flashed a kitbag full of souvenirs. "And what we got I wisht I had; I'd wear it for a fob— A big tin fish off Ireland — bet we speared him," said the Gob. Said the Doughboy, "I've sure had enough of lacin' up my pants. And you needn't ever talk to me about no 'sunny France.' The cootie is a busy bird. We certainly et some beans. And I guess we'll have to hand it to them devil-dog Marines." Said the Gob, "You're right, Old Timer; they was THERE! and I opines 70 THE CONNING TOWER BOOK It was quite some cool off Heligo, but we planted plenty mines. We itched to scrap the Heinies' fleet, but they was awful coy. When they come out, their flag was white." Said the Doughboy, "Attaboy I" "Who was them Janes," the Doughboy asked, "I seen you with last night?" "Some class, eh, wot?" the Gob said. "Oy, some class, I'll say, is right!" Said the Gob, "Since you've come back, Old Top, I see you're quite some girled." "Yea, Bo!" replied the Doughboy. "And I'm settin' on the world." Said the Doughboy to the Gob, "A Tommy ain't no bloomin' fool." "Why, I even had a limey for a pal in Liverpool," The Gob declared. "And Frenchies? Oh, la, la, you oughta seen My Madelon at Dijon!" said the Doughboy. "Sure! Some queen!" "But when it comes to settlin' down — I know a Red Cross nurse" — "I get you," said the Doughboy, "and a feller might do worse. Of course, there's Nell back home — her pitcher, see?" "Oh, boy, some squab!" "I guess Nell's good enough for me," said the Dough- boy to the Gob. THE CONNING TOWER BOOK 71 "Well, the old war's finished," said the Gob, "and I ain't shed a tear. And what I'd chiefly like to know is where do we go from here?" "The hours was long," the Doughboy said, "the chow was often sad. It WAS a punk old war, but it was all the war we had." Said the Gob, "Old Kid, I'll blow you to a first-class movie show — Old Charlie in the trenches." And the Doughboy said, "Let's go!" "Well, when Uncle Sam'l said the word, we went and done the job." "You said a mouthful, Buddy!" said the Doughboy to the Gob. C. A. 72 THE CONNING TOWER BOOK The Squanderers When Spring bequeathed the poplar Ten thousand leaves of gold, I had a coin for every coin The poplar's arms could hold. And I was just as proud then As any careless king, And I was stirred as easily As poplars are in Spring. Throughout the ardent Summer I could not be outdone; For each gold piece the poplar spent I flung a finer one. But now we both are beggars . . , The tree no longer gleams, And I who had as much to give Am destitute of dreams. GEORGE NEIL THE CONNING TOWER BOOK 73 oAn Intermezzo for the fourth *Act If my peculiar pulchritude in Paris seemed to please, Upon the Champs Elysees 'mongst the blooming chest- nut trees, Or if along the Rivoli in hell's melange of men Which bubbled in the war brew, you observed me now and then ; Or if the picture rising, of my roly-poly form, A-toddle down the boulevards should make your heart grow warm — O Phyllis, wipe that picture from your memory cold and flat — You should see me in my new straw hat! For I'm in London now, my dear, in London old and gray; And spring is fading in the past, and summer's under way. But London is a decent town, polite and snug and curt; It breaks her heart to frivol and one breaks her laws to flirt! And how she works and how she frets, and yet she's always sweet; So I am here in London for to give the town a treat. And if I'm middle aged and bald and slow and rather fat— You should see me in my new straw hat! 74 THE CONNING TOWER BOOK Perhaps we're not immortal, lass, but O I wish we were; Though not to save some prudish saint or pale philo- sopher, I want to find those lads whom life's sweet, poignant beauty wracked, Who had to duck and cut the show, before the second act — Say Schubert, Keats, or Phidias, those olden, golden boys — And tell them something of the play, and how it never cloys. For I have seen three acts, and now I'm fifty — but, at that, You should see me in my new straw hat! WILLIAM ALLEN WHITE THE CONNING TOWER BOOK 75 "3/aec Olim oJhCe minis se luvabit" I Oh, back in the fall of nineteen-two, when I was a freshman green, I planned to be one of the cultured few, with a high and beetling bean. So I took on Latin, and German IV, French, History V (to the civil war), Trig, Algebra I, a ghastly bore — and freshman chemistree. Here, then, are the facts I still retain from nineteen- two and three: We 1 won the "bloody Monday" fight, and made the sophs retire 2 , Dear Lehigh licked the football team 3 by a score that was something dire; Bill 4 came on from Chicago U. With some bar-room stories — and good ones, too 5 ; I got on the glee club, and made Psi U, and sang in the chapel choir. II As a sophomore, I am proud to state, I was taking the hurdles clear, I dreamed of copping the old Phi Bete by the end of my Junior year. I soaked up Logic, and Physics III, French Lit. (I was there with the loud oui oui) , 76 THE CONNING TOWER BOOK Psychology, Shakespeare, Verse — not free — and a couple of courses more. Here's what I recall as I look back on nineteen-three and four: Weary chairmaned the Junior prom {his girl was Harriet White)*, I played third quarter on the football scrub, while Loup played centre and right, Joe Bauderman ran a record mile, The baseball team was perfectly vile 7 , / made the track team after awhile, and fussed 8 each Saturday night. Ill By Junior year I had laid away those hopes of a Phi Bete key, But I toyed with the thought of a proud M. A., and a possible Ph. D.; So I grabbed off Plato and Kant, and such, Church History, Banking (the worldly touch!), The German bards — whom we termed "them Dutch" — such French as I might contrive; And the following info, still adheres from nineteen- four and five. Tom Reilley's d team smeared R. P. I. to the tune of a large amount 10 : / made the gym and the track teams both 11 ; they ducked Young Blum 12 in the fount; The glee club trip was a Lakewood treat, The base ball team got badly beat 1 '*, And I got a third at the Wesleyan meet u — but third place didnt count. THE CONNING TOWER BOOK 77 IV A Senior now, I was bald and grey with the studious life I'd led, But proud of the knowledge stowed away in my small but well-formed head. I killed International (so called) Law, Took Spanish and Chaucer (the latter's raw), Wound up with a thesis on Bernard Shaw — how much of that stuff still sticks? Well, here is the dope I recollect from nineteen-five and six: Bill and I wrote the senior show {his book was a mere detail) And Loup played "Elsie, the Cannibal Queen/' — and looked like a half-dressed whale; The Senior ball was a dream divine 1 *, The Senior banquet was mostly wine, And F. P. A. ran a piece of mine 16 in the New York Evening Mail 1. That is, the class of 1906. oi\ijle.u 2. Weary won't like this, but it's true. 3. 46-0, if you must know. 4. William LeBaron, the talented author of "I Love You" — adv. 5. And a wonderful song, "Kansas." 6. And maybe he wasn't stuck on her. 7. As usual. 8. Some girl, too. She married shortly after that. 9. Major T. T. Reilley, D. S. C. 10. 53—0, no less. 11. I was pretty good, too, but badly handled. I know I could have done the low hurdles in 26 if Mike Cann had only understood me. Stimmie Draper (Arthur S. Draper, London correspondent of the New York Tribune) did the pole vault that year. He was rotten. 12. I'm not sure of the name. He was going to sue the college, or something, but didn't. 13. See note 7. 14. The track up there is so narrow that only three of us could run. 15. I took Adele Martin, a queen. She married Bill Wildman almost immediately afterward. 16. It wasn't very good. 78 THE CONNING TOWER BOOK The £ons of zM*ary The Sons of Martha have not to worry — of that their tetrarchs will take good care : And they care not a whit for the Sons of Mary, what they must suffer or how they fare. The Sons of Martha demand an increase (a favorite indoor game that they play) ; They spout and they riot until they win it — and Mary's Sons are the lads that pay. The Sons of Mary in all the ages have dared the venture and taken the chance; They explore earth's riches and plan the bridges, in- vent the machinery, design the plants. It is through them that on every workday the Sons of Martha have work to do, It is through them that on every pay day the Sons of Martha get every sou. They say to the railways, "Be ye fashioned." They say to the ships of the air, "Go fly." They train the youth and they heal the stricken; the tears of the mourner they help to dry. They draft the maps and they paint the pictures; they carve the statue; the speech they speak — While the Sons of Martha are seeking solely to do less labor for more per week. THE CONNING TOWER BOOK 79 The Sons of Mary their lives have given to fight the fever and purge the filth ; They graft the scion, they grow the blossom, they keep the fields of the world in tilth. They write the book and they chant the poem, they make the music and dream the dream; They to the Truth bear unselfish witness; they have the vision, they see the gleam. They do not preach that their only duties are spread- ing dissension and going on strike; They do not teach that it's square and decent to scamp their work as they damn well like. They aim to uphold a mind of fairness, not class sus- picion and social strife, They, too, must think of making a living — but they sometimes think of making a life. And the Sons of Martha esteem this silly, convinced that Fortune will yield reward To him that has the most brazen thorax, the lightest head and the strongest sword. This, it seems, is the sum of their Credo — this is the way their reasoning runs : "Let's force the birthright and seize the blessing, and lay the burden on Mary's Sons!" G. S. B. 80 . THE CONNING TOWER BOOK The Wide Open spaces The hot September sun shone down on the wide and peaceful bay, Where the mighty fleet of England in warlike grandeur lay, With its lines of black mouthed cannon, and its crews of white capped men, But never a ship of all the fleet so staunch as the Jolly Jen. But Marion, fair Marion, she had no thought of fear As she leaped into the saddle with a loud and ringing cheer, And then gave spur and rode away across the heathery plain, And then turned round her palfrey, and rode back home again. What then of the road to Mandalay and the boy with the twisted knee, And other things men read about, but seldom or never see? And why do the reapers in the fields and the toilers in the town Give up their work with a troubled look, and, thinking, sit them down? THE CONNING TOWER BOOK 81 And dream of him with his caravan, as he toils the sandy way Across the wastes of Africa, with never a word to say ; With one hand folded behind him and the other folded before, And both of them folded together as they were in the days of yore? So peace to the troubled spirit, peace to the heaving breast, Peace to the Chinese thunder thing that rises in the West, For the true born poet cares naught for sense and heeds nor tide nor time As long as he makes his meters mete and a fairly pass- able rhyme. OSCAR H. LEAR 82 THE CONNING TOWER BOOK zA "Ballad of the great War Oh, 'twas back in the fall of '17 that I went as a volun- teer, For the war was raging across the sea and the war was raging here. And every lad had a khaki suit and a sweater and helmet knit, And a shiny mirror made of tin and a khaki comfort kit. And every lad had a luminous watch and a pair of Munson shoes, And the Poems of Robert Service bound in the leather that's known as ooze. Oh, some may call it a glorious war, but we soldiers knew 'twas hell. We were stationed up at Ithaca at a place that they call Cornell ; And they crammed us full of all sorts of things, and they drilled us from morn till night, And we learned to master the Lewis gun and The Theory of Flight. And as we lay at the close of day on our cots when our work was through, Some guy from a bunk near mine would spout "The Shooting of Dan Megrew." Yes, they drilled us hard and they crammed us worse till our heads they were busting full, THE CONNING TOWER BOOK 83 And they rode us, too, and the worst of the crew was a Lieut, known as Franklin Bull. No, I never harked to the cannon's roar nor the shriek of a shrapnel shell, And my only Huns were the waiter men at the Ithaca Hotel. Yet I shudder to think of the horrors of war that I suf- fered at Cornell U., As I listened in bed through the silent night to "The Shooting of Dan Megrew." A fellow named Charlie Hoffman used to recite it each night at mess, I remember Thanksgiving dinner, w T hen he performed it with great success. Dick Eustis and young John Meany, and — need I name any more? Why, Henry Churchill did it, and that warrior, Jack Hoare. Now this cruel war is ended, just as Milne once said it would, And I'm through with the horrors of warfare; I'm a veteran now for good. And I'm done with the well known army, henceforth and forevermore, And they'll have to catch me first before I'll sign for another war. For my soul is wearing a service stripe for the suffer- ing I've been through, From the Poems of Robert Service and "The Shooting of Dan Megrew." FLACCUS 84 THE CONNING TOWER BOOK ballade for <^hCissionaries The brazen form of the great god Pan The aged gardener had polished new. He stood there now with his cleaning can, Gazed, and his admiration grew. Said he, "I guess there's a mighty few Could polish him up as good as me. I shined the whole of him like a shoe, And there he is as he ought to be." As he hobbled away, some urchins ran To the statue, looking for trouble to brew, And invented the altruistic plan Of dressing the god (for they never do). Crowned with a cap of scarlet hue, A collar and tie — and — sapristi! A cigarette (it is lighted, too). And there he is as he ought to be. Sudden the rumble and roar began Of approaching thunder. The urchins flew For shelter, leaving the god, turned man, Alone to meet with his Waterloo. The lightning flashed and the storm wind blew, Away went Pan's haberdashery And the gardener's polish. The wind said "Whew! And there he is as he ought to be!" THE CONNING TOWER BOOK 85 I/ENVOI Read, Missionaries, this ballad through, Who save the heathen across the sea, For, "give him clothes and a prayer," say you, "And there he is as he ought to be!" SQUIDGE The flown While men went brawling in the sun With love and laughter, knowing well They trod the road to-night with one Foot in the grave and one in hell, He sought to trap the eye of God With pious tricks, and warily Walked, with sterility for rod, A tight-rope to eternity. J. M. S. 86 THE CONNING TOWER BOOK Thais One time in Alexandria, in wicked Alexandria, Where nights were wild with revelry and life was but a game, There lived, so the report is, an adventuress and cour- tesan, The pride of Alexandria, and Thais was her name. Nearby, in peace and piety, avoiding all society, There dwelt a band of holy men who'd built a refuge there ; And in the desert's solitude they spurned all earthly folly to Devote their days to holy works, to fasting and to prayer. Now one monk whom I solely mention of this group of holy men Was known as Athanael; he was famous near and far. At fasting bouts or prayer with him no other could compare with him; At ground and lofty praying he could do the course in par. One night while sleeping heavily (from fighting with the devil he THE CONNING TOWER BOOK 87 Had gone to bed exhausted while the sun was shining still), He had a vision Freudian, and though he was annoyed he an- Alyzed it in the well-known style of Doctors Jung and Brill. He dreamed of Alexandria, of wicked Alexandria: A crowd of men were cheering in a manner rather rude At Thais, who was dancing there, and Athanael, glanc- ing there, Observed her do the shimmy in what artists call The Nude. Said he, "This dream fantastical disturbs my thoughts monastical ; Some unsuppressed desire, I fear, has found my monkish cell. I blushed up to the hat o' me to view that girl's ana- tomy. I'll go to Alexandria and save her soul from Hell." So, pausing not to wonder where he'd put his summer underwear, He quickly packed his evening clothes, his tooth- brush and a vest. To guard against exposure he threw in some woolen hosiery, And bidding all the boys goodby, he started on his quest. The monk, though warned and fortified, was deeply shocked and mortified 88 THE CONNING TOWER BOOK To find, on his arrival, wild debauchery in sway. While some lay in a stupor, sent by booze of more than two per cent., The others were behaving in a most immoral way. Said he to Thais, "Pardon me. Although this job is hard on me, I gotta put you wise to what I came down here to tell. What's all this sousin' gettin' you? Cut out this pie eyed retinue; Let's hit the train together, kid, and save yourself from Hell." Although this bold admonishment caused Thais some astonishment, She coyly answered, "Say, you said a heaping mouth- ful, bo, This burg's a frost, I'm telling you. The brand of hooch they're selling you Ain't like the stuff we used to get, so let's pack up and go." So forth from Alexandria, from wicked Alexandria, Across the desert sands they go beneath the blazing sun; Till Thais, parched and sweltering, finds refuge in the sheltering Seclusion of a convent, and the habit of a nun. But now the monk is terrified to find his fears are verified : His holy vows of chastity have cracked beneath the strain. THE CONNING TOWER BOOK 89 Like one who has a jag on he cries out in grief and agony, "I'd sell my soul to see her do the shimmy once again." Alas! his pleadings clamorous, the passionate and amorous, Have come too late; the courtesan has danced her final dance. The monk says, "That's a joke on me, for that there dame to croak on me. I hadn't oughter passed her up the time I had the chance." FLACCUS Song for John ffiftvard Tayne Week I like Nantucket; I like East Lyme; But I love New York, With its noise and crime. J. Q. 90 THE CONNING TOWER BOOK "The c Pigeon- ( $carer i Every mornin' I useta watch and wonder, While all them pigeons was flyin' around his head, What was he doin' with that, now, fishin'-pole, Funny and blacklike, and the sky all red. After a while I thought he must be crazy: Didn't he know they don't catch birds that way? But still he done it, and I finely goes Into the bird-store, and I asts 'em, "Say, "That dizzy gink there, 'way up on the roof, What is he doin' — what's he tryin' to prove?" They says he was a reg'lar pigeon-scarer, And has to keep them pigeons on the move. A pigeon is a lazy thing, you see; They like to set around and hate to fly; But if you let 'em, then they clean forget How flyin' is, and so get sick, and die. Now, ain't that funny? But I got to thinkin' How Life is like that; and, you know, it seems Troubles and things like that is pigeon-scarers, And pigeons is your soul, or elset your dreams. If everything goes right, they get all lazy, And fat, and crawl around all weak and slack; THE CONNING TOWER BOOK 91 So then old pigeon-scarer comes along, And pokes 'em up. And all the stren'th comes back Inta your dream-wings or your soul-wings — see? — And — whish! — they leave the lazy parts of you Down on the ground, and up, 'w T ay up, they go, Up where it's clean, and beautiful, and blue. But here's the sad part, when you come to think: They sneak back to the place he chased 'em from; 1 Always they get back to the lazy ways — Always the pigeon-scarer has to come. JOHN V. A. WEAVER £a T>erniere Qhanson (From the Provencal) My songs are done. Your love was not for me. The carols that I made for you were vain. All that I hear in them is mockery And taunting echoes breaking through each strain. My songs are done. You ask me to forget Our laughter — dreams — caresses — everything. ... If only I did not discern you yet In all the blinding loveliness of Spring! ISOSCELES 92 THE CONNING TOWER BOOK ^A Village Idyl When Greenwich Village gathers nightly In Pirates' Den and Devils' Cavern, In Selma's Cave and Toscha's Tavern, The poets twinkle, O so brightly! The minstrels of the motley vesture In lisping accents drool their verses; Their rimes, as empty as their purses, They stutter with a regal gesture. The bobbed-hair ladies rush to hand them Applause and more substantial treasures; They lisp their praise of limping measures, Though none there are that understand them. There came one night to Daphne's Hang-out Clarissa, Viscount Gottem's daughter, An heiress who had crossed the water To dwell a while where genius sang out. And as she came Sylvester Sopus, A soul unshackled and romantic, (Convention drove him simply frantic!) Was chanting this, his latest opus: THE CONNING TOWER BOOK 93 MY LOVE My love is a lavender star, sweeping, pulsing, throbbing, across a heliotrope sky; my life is a beige cloud — so beige, so beige, so beige — yet when you appear, coruscating you, a rose-tinted wind drives away the cloud and the star shines forth, forth. . .forth. . .forth. Clarissa listened, temples throbbing, Her heart ablaze, her pulses humming, Her ev'ry complex wildly strumming And then embraced Sylvester, sobbing: "Your song invades my inmost niches, It fills me with a fierce elation ; Let's wed and live in sweet vibration On poetry — and father's riches!" Sylvester sailed and Gottem gave him The cash to purchase boundless pleasure, A life of undiluted leisure, With valets to attend and shave him. A year he lived in ducal fashion, But ev'ry day his bride recited A bit of verse that she'd indited, A piece like this, declaimed with passion: 94 THE CONNING TOWER BOOK MY LOVE My love is a scarlet harp, strung with purple passions and poppy-hued desires; there are dreary days when it is mute. . . mute. . .mute. . .mute. . . there are other days when you are with me, tender days full of music, then it sings madly. . . madly. . .madly. . . A year Sylvester listened, daily. His brain was sore; his ears were aching, And then he gave it up, forsaking Clarissa and her wealth quite gayly. And now whene'er the Muse starts strumming The lyre on which the sonnets glisten, Sylvester will not even listen — He makes an honest living, plumbing. LESTER MARK EL THE CONNING TOWER BOOK 95 Wild Tlum They are unholy who are born To love wild plum at night, Who once passed it on a road Glimmering and white. It is as though the darkness had Speech of silver words, Or as though a cloud of stars Perched like ghostly birds. They are unpitied from their birth And homeless in men's sight, Who love better than the earth Wild plum at night. ADUL TIMA 96 THE CONNING TOWER BOOK "J^ever Tick Wild glowers" "Never pick wild flowers!" That's what she would say; "Leave 'em free in the fields Where they can play — "Play and be beautiful Under the big sky; If you take 'em home Wild flowers die!" Then she shook her little head, And I went crazy Wantin' her standin' there Like a brown-eyed daisy. "Such talk!" I thinks then, "All a sweet lie. Other people picks 'em — Why shouldn't I?" If I only listened! What have I done? "Never pick a wild love" — Where's my flowers gone? JOHN V. A. WEAVER THE CONNING TOWER BOOK 97 To a Qirl, Upon l^eturning I've been away, to far Chicago, To Omaha and to Seattle, Los Angeles and Kansas City, And to Columbus. I met a host of pretty maidens, Apportioned, one to every village; To each I said my nimble nothings And kept on moving. My heart was charmed, when in Chicago, By Frances, just because she lifted Her hands, in speaking, lightly, idly, The same way you do. In Omaha I met Katinka: She listened to my prattle, smiling; I thought of you, the way you listened, And loved her for it. And Gladys, grieving in Seattle, I loved because she cried so quickly. You cry — and oh, how well I know it! — For any reason. Then in Los Angeles was Hilda: Her eyes were full and sweet and tender; She looked at me with love, as you do — I thought her charming! 98 THE CONNING TOWER BOOK In Kansas City, where Aileen was, Again of you was I reminded, Because her mouth, like yours, was mobile And twisted sweetly. And Constance, in Columbus township, Would smooth my hand with gentle fingers ; It seemed, what haunting hours she did it, They were your fingers. Now I've come back, to watch your hands lift; To see you, while I prattle, smiling; To comfort you, when you are weeping For no good reason. Your tender eyes will beam upon me, The while I watch your mouth twist sweetly. And in the haunting hours of twilight, I'll clasp your fingers. But this I know, my sweet, already: When you do these things, I'll remember . . . I'll think of Gladys, Frances, Hilda — And start to travel! GEORGE JESTER THE CONNING TOWER BOOK 99 The Italics are Cjeorge ream of Cjfair Women I dreamed I read from off the city wire Legends of fair women, in deep woe Twanged on the hungry space-writer's brass lyre To cop some bootleg dough. I Brazen Chloe, the first flapper, whose bare shank Bedazzled the scented sapheads of old Rome, Incarnate now in Broadway homespun swank, Leaped out old Horace's Pome: "Don t Beat Masher" Blonde Asks Crowds; "I Pinched Him First" ii I saw a phiz from out the Billboard's pale, Wreathed in the smoke of Milo cigarettes, Scorning, despite the Daily News' low wail, The alibi of soubrettes: "Stage or Husband?" "Bunk" Says Actress; "I ^uit Him for More" 118 THE CONNING TOWER BOOK III At length I met a Lady in the Hall Standing Dry-eyed before the Talesmen there, A Smith & Wesson Dame, unkindly tall, But most divinely "fair": "Just Plain Murder; My Mind Didnt Go Blank" Wife s Plea IV And lo! from out the Trumpet swiftly came A note no Baldric-bearer blew of old, A merchant's widowed Hideous Beldame, Armed to the teeth with gold : "Of Course Hell Wed Me for Money, What Else?" Grins Ddtoager LONG JOHN SILVER THE CONNING TOWER BOOK 119 The Qity of Towers This is a place I would not choose to stay While meadows keep their light and forests sway, While seas and lakes and flowing rivers shine And hills roll westward in a careless line. . . . I would prefer to see a glowing face Kindled with ardor in a quiet place, And silent broken leaves beneath my feet, To all those eyes that signal in the street. Where there is distance and the hills are long, Solace is easier, and tranquil song; And the meadow in the heart forever mars This city where the towers tilt at stars. GEORGE 0'NEIL 120 THE CONNING TOWER BOOK T>ie Walkuere (Dedicated to Montague Glass) A schone mashpocha, them Hundings! That rosher Old Marcus Hunding, I never knew it such a feller in my life. And his wife Siegel Hinda ain't just what you'd maybe call Kosher, The way she carried on with that guy Sigmund, be- lieve me, you should now have it such a wife! Wie heisst Siegel Hinda? In the old country yet was it Hinda Siegel good enough for her before she got swell, When her husband bought it a bungle-loaf up in Sulli- van County (ten dollars a month and twenty- five down on deposit) With a tree growing in the middle and a sword stuck in it like a cozy corner in the Arverne Hotel. Nu, one night when Hunding ain't yet come up on the five-thirty (Might'll be he's playing a little pinochle with the boys and missed his train) Comes a fellow by the name Sigmund Walinsky all soaking wet like a fish, and dirty, And with oser a word lays down by the open-work fire-place out of the rain. "Might you should be so kind," he says, "I could have a drink of water?" THE CONNING TOWER BOOK 121 "Nebich I'll get it myself," says Siegel Hinda. "It's so hard here in the mountains to keep maids." And she brings in a pitcher what Hunding for her last wedding anniversary bought her, When in comes Hunding, looking mad like he had just went bait on a four hundred hand in spades. Awhile they schmoos; then Hunding says to him, u Maybe Might'll be you are a relation by Walinsky Bros, from Little Falls?" "No," says Sigmund, "I ain't got no relations in this country. My whole mashpocha died when I was a baby. My father, olav hasholem, came from Cracow and heisst Waelse. One time when my father selig is gone out fishing, Comes a lowlife baitzemer and murders my mother, olav hasholem, and kidnaps my little sister away. Hunding the feller's name is, and I'm wishing Only I should run into that rosher some fine day." "You should live so long!" cries Hunding getting mad like. "A chutzpah, you should talk so here in my house under my very face. To-night you can sleep here, God forbid, because you're looking kinder tired and bad like, But to-morrow we'll fight it a duel fight, so help me, and I'll schmier you up all over the place." After, when Hunding's in bed and sleeping quiet, Siegel Hinda sneaks out in the dining room where Sigmund is laying on the floor. 122 THE CONNING TOWER BOOK "Quick!" she says. "Der Goy schlaft. Let's get out from here before he could start a riot." So Sigmund pulls the sword out which it is stuck in the tree and after they sing a loud song for ten minutes or half an hour, they go out the door. In a wild place in the mountains, all rocky and hilly, A crowd of fat circus riding girls are standing around, making an awful geschrei, "Oi, oi, oi — yo!" they yell, which it all sounds kind of silly. Comes a very fat one by the name Broun Hilda, who looks like maybe she is from the Heywood Broun mashpocha, and joins in the cry. Her father Wotan, which he is the same Waelse that Sigmund tells about, only he ain't died in Cracow — his first wife Erda is her mother — Says, "Hilda, my wife Fricka says we got to help it Hunding should win the fight. If you only knew the life I got with that woman. If it ain't one thing, y'understand, it's another." And Hilda says, "I got it rachmonis for that Sig- mund, but if you say so, Pa, all right." Now comes Sigmund, and Hunding after him like Jake Dempsey fighting, When Hilda butts in, and tries to make it Sigmund should win instead. ^ All of a sudden Wotan rushes out all mad and exciting, "A business!" he says and gives Sigmund a schlag and the poor schlemiehl falls down dead. "Nu," says Wotan to Hilda, when he afterwards found her, THE CONNING TOWER BOOK 123 "It ain't my fault, y'understand me, but my wife, unbeschreien, says I must punish you for acting that way." So he puts her to sleep on a rock and builds a swell bun- fire around her, And there she sleeps with the thermometer two hun- dred and fifty degrees in the shade ... A meshuggina play! FLACCUS 7(u "Klux Kowards who kover their faces, Kaitiffs who skulk in their shrouds, Kankers — the Kountry's disgraces, Kravens — Kourageous in krowds. Killers where Faction defends them, Kurs who will bite if they kan, Kut-throats when darkness befriends them — Kaps in the air for the Klan! ARTHUR GUITERMAN 124 THE CONNING TOWER BOOK Wires strung with diamonds, Shanties decked in white, Our shabby little village Turned lovely overnight. If I were dressed in satin, With diamonds in my hair, Do you think, perhaps, that some one Would say that I was fair? I. V. s. w. THE CONNING TOWER BOOK 125 "Poems in Praise of Practically everything After October, comes November, Then, after that, we have December With cold and snow, and then the very Parlous month of January. The North wind howls, the gray slush blubbers, Aha, you laugh, you're wearing rubbers! You're full of mufflers, chest-protectors, Aspirin, and flu deflectors; You don't go out when you're overheated — Disease may lurk, but you can beat it. Well, all of a sudden, you clutch your thorax, You have a pain, you're pale as borax; You sneeze, you bark, your head feels thicker — Well, what are you sore about? Some get sicker! II You fall in love, it's a common habit; You act as nutty as a rabbit; Even a dial phone seems simple: You call her up and you praise — a dimple; She says she loves you; it doesn't seem human: But that is a thing peculiar to women; You feel like Hermes, Ajax, Caesar; You do a million things to please her; — Then, all of a sudden, you're down in limbo: 126 THE CONNING TOWER BOOK She leaves you flat for another bimbo; You turn on women, you curse, abuse 'em — Well, what are you sore about? Some can't lose 'em! Ill You work and work till your brain is weary, Your nerves are worn, your eyes are bleary, What with the way you put things over, Your boss may sneer at a four-leaf clover; He likes your work; he never pans you: Then, all of a sudden, like that, he cans you. You howl, you come out strong for shirking — And what are you sore about? I'm still working. SAMUEL HOFFENSTEIN Triolet Another year Of sighs and song. Will life be dear Another year? But banish fear! To us belong Another year Of sighs and song. J. 0. L. THE CONNING TOWER BOOK 127 In zJktemoriam Shep, a good dog, is dead. What then? How many dogs have died, and men; How many worlds, how many suns; For so the different pageant runs. But I who miss him, may not I Remember him, and wonder why — As men have wondered since men were — Why men and dogs of character, Brave, gentle men, brave dogs and kind, With cowards and curs oblivion find; Come to one end with knaves, one room, And mix with muckers in the tomb: Ashes to ashes, dust to dust; Love that was loyal one with lust: Strength that was selfless one with greed; The briar rose and the stinking weed . . . Bah! — the old riddles rust my pen! Shep, a good dog, is dead. What then! LEE WILSON DODD 128 THE CONNING TOWER BOOK £ines On %eading 2). Jf. £aTwence, ^hef^ood ^Anderson, £t aL I Friends, what's the matter with me? II I've been married eighteen years And still love my wife. I wonder what's the matter with me! Ill Judging from these books I'm told to read, I ought to be tired of my wife; But I'm notl I ought to fall in love with another woman, With other women, With lots of other women ; But I don't! Say, what's the matter with me? IV I want to live a full, free, abundant life. I want to grow, express myself, know passion and de- light. And I thought I was doing this In marriage with a woman I love! But these books tell me that marriage is servitude, That an unchanged wife is a body of death, THE CONNING TOWER BOOK 129 That I'm repressed, extinguished, cold. Strange! I never felt that way! I don't feel that way now. I wonder what's the matter with me! V Come, physicians of the soul, Tell me my ill 1 I've been married eighteen years And still adore my wife. I have no hunger for other women, I am content to be faithful, I am resigned to decency. I actually think I have found love and life. What's the matter with me? JOHN HAYNES HOLMES <^4ch>ice to Touth Since little time is granted here For pride in pain or play; Since blood soon cools before the fear That makes our prowess clay; If lips to kiss are freely met, Lad, be not proud or shy; There are no lips where men forget, And undesiring lie. COUNTEE P. CULLEN 130 THE CONNING TOWER BOOK Qontrarious When I'm with tired business men And watch their dull, battalioned brains Goose-step along, past lilac lanes, Adown the turnpike that they ken : Then see each brain alone parade As though it marched in rank and file, Harking for aught to be obeyed To keep it uniform in style — Why, then I feel like throwing rocks, And hurl, instead, a paradox. But when I'm with a brilliant group Advanced in thought and lofty-browed, Rebels against the creeded crowd, I find they, too, trip in a troupe. And when I see them halt, and right About from truth's reality, And shoot their volleys at the trite, With drilled originality, I sigh, with bored ingratitude, For one spontaneous platitude. Yes, I admit that I'm perverse If nothing worse. R. P. THE CONNING TOWER BOOK 131 Toems of Passion, Carefully Restrained So as to Offend Nobody You have a most attractive pan, And I'm a very foolish man, And, what between the two, I fell As deep as Dante into hell. But do you, in your triumph, think I'll stay forever on the blink, And pine and pale and waste away And grow cadaverous and gray — A wreck, a rum, a shard? Well, maybe You are right about it, Baby! II When you're away, I'm restless, lonely, Wretched, bored, dejected; only Here's the rub, my darling dear: I feel the same when you are here. Ill Psychoanalyzed, I stand And meditate your little hand — Your lost, evasive eyes, that seem To lean upon me while they scheme. And thus contemplative, I know Why I adore and need you so : 132 THE CONNING TOWER BOOK When I was six or seven or eight, In that divine, pre-nubile state, I had a horror, vent in yelpings, Of what were known as single helpings; When I was nine, or maybe ten, I nursed an unrequited yen : I loved her, middle-aged and shrewish, But she was Christian, I but Jewish — Though now I marvel at it all, Who am devout Episcopal. When I was in my teens, I dreamed Green apples were not what they seemed, But beasts, inimical to rest, Who sat upon a fellow's chest; When I achieved the peak of twenty, Bad breaks with dames I had a-plenty, Who left my burning love behind, And each, a complex in my mind. Now, to these inhibitions true, I am a-Freud of losing you, And, though I fully understand, I meditate your little hand, Your eyes that lie as like as not, And love you, whom I ought to swat. SAMUEL HOFFENSTE1N THE CONNING TOWER BOOK 133 The Qluricaun A fine one is the Cluricaun; He drinks a cellar dry, And staggers home before the dawn Can sober up the sky. Well, he was on his way to town The night I have in mind. He smelled poteen across the down And felt exceeding kind. "I think I'll yell a song," he thought, "So bravely do I feel." And from his throat a hymn he brought, Improved into a reel. So long he sang the little folk Before his music fled. But all the baby stars awoke And left their milky bed. They tumbled off the counterpane, Unable to refuse To drink a tune that did contain Such lovely curlicues. Down, down they came and romped along The alley-ways of night 134 THE CONNING TOWER BOOK Until the singer of their song Came bobbing into sight. For as he sang he tried to dance Upon O'Brien's rath; And failed to see the starlets prance About his crazy path. And when at last his hearers thought He'd worn his larynx through Or burned his palate overhot, He cracked a cloud in two. At last a blush upon a stone Before his eyes appeared; A tree grew pale and he did moan : "O, Mary, I'm afeared." "It is me inemy, the morn, And if me coat of red Is touched be him I'm all forlorn. In fact I'm worse; I'm dead." But 'twas no dawn-light in the sky That made the toper speed. He could have seen with half an eye A riot there, indeed. For all the mother stars had learned The children were astray And with parental passion burned The night as bright as day. THE CONNING TOWER BOOK 135 Below them leapt your screaming wretch From bog to lawn to bog, A twisted course that, straight, would stretch From here to Tir-Nan-Og. When, all at once, he heard them hum Their astral lullaby, He stopped, and, for the moment, dumb, Observed the singing sky. Then, bold once more, the Cluricaun Said, "Damn ye, one and all. Ye made me think the sneaking dawn Had trapped me in the pall. "Ye scairt me well, but by the fen That shelters me by day Ye'll never kiss your babes again; So sing your hearts away." And so, if there be truth in rune, Fire-flies the darkness through Go dancing to a fairy tune, And wonder why they do. MARC CONNELLY 136 THE CONNING TOWER BOOK Spit aph for a TSad Qirl Her heart, born eager, generous and just, Failed to perceive the sordidness of lust. She thought it lovely, and she made it so. Because of this, about the world there go A score of men who writhe in generous shame When their chaste wives pour vitriol on her name. They turn to silence when her name is spoken. Not glove or garter is produced as token. They look with empty, hurt, remembering eyes Upon a world so good, so chaste, so wise. A. D. THE CONNING TOWER BOOK 137 Songs zAbout £ife and brighter Things Tet I Nothing from a straight line swerves So sharply as a woman's curves, And, having swerved, no might or main Can ever put her straight again. II Men in single state should tarry; While women, I suggest, should marry. Ill Some folks I know are always worried That when they die they will be buried, And some I know are quite elated Because they're going to be cremated. IV Oh, it is cruel and inhuman Not to pick up a fallen woman! — A man who would not pick her up, Shall have but water in his cup. V Where primal instincts do not slumber, One sex the other does outnumber: Men, e. g., are scarce in Paris Because of which, on dit, the war is — 138 THE CONNING TOWER BOOK And the status that prevails In London is a dearth of males, While twenty fellows in Manhattan Jump for the chair that Jenny sat in. 'Tis bad, I think, to have too many Women around a man — if any. VI A Queen as torrid as Sumatra Was the famous Cleopatra, While Queen Elizabeth, I gather, Contained herself in hottest weather; — Proving that even Queens can vary, Pourquoi and how, the same as Mary. Spell 'em with an a or e, They're all a mystery to me. SAMUEL HOFFENSTEIN THE CONNING TOWER BOOK 139 fourth 'Dimension Through some re-entrant angle Where spirit merges place, By intercosmic tangle Of time that is but space, She came, and oh, I knew her As if we two were wed! But though my soul went to her, My body was as dead. Though I at last beheld her, No clearer did she seem Than when I oft had spelled her In all my years of dream. I could not call her to me, I could not name her name; But, as the fire went through me, I knew she felt the flame. She looked at me, and sent me Her knowledge of our fate; And that must all content me — She came to me too late. 140 THE CONNING TOWER BOOK So I shall see her never; The dream will pass away; For she was young as ever, And I am old and gray! GELETT BURGESS The ^Modest "Bard I don't attempt the stuff that makes 'em cry, My verse is seldom sorrowful or sour; (You know yourself I never heaved a sigh Into your Tower.) What time a grave and lofty theme I try Concerning, say, some matter astronomic, I do three lines, and shout, "I'll bet that I Could make this comic!" Let other bards contest the laureate's bay, Let others write the things that Live Forever — I'm satisfied as long as people say: The kid is clever! A. S. THE CONNING TOWER BOOK 141 *A IZJme of a?i ^Ancient (gentleman Timothy Dexter of Newburyport Was a droll old scout of a good old sort. He published a book, did this choice old spark, With no trace of a punctuation mark. The critics might rave or readers complain, And declare the proceedings scarcely sane; Yet never a point did the book contain. Some persons denounced him and others jeered, But a new edition ere long appeared. Points of all sizes and all the faces That then could be found in printers' cases Adorned an appendix, set closely spaced; And over them all was the legend placed : Just pepper the victuals to suit your taste. Timothy Dexter of Newburyport Was a gay old soul of a rare old sort. For West Indian trade he laid his plans, So he sailed with a cargo of warming-pans; And when he discovered for things like these No market at all in the Carribbees His comment was merely, "We aim to please." He removed the lids with a right good will, And the pans he sold to a sugar mill For molasses ladles. "Bring all youVe got!" 142 THE CONNING TOWER BOOK They cried, and he went with another lot. And he sold the lids to the native beaux, Who wore 'em suspended from ear or nose And asked, "Can you furnish some more of those?" Timothy Dexter of Newburyport Was a stanch old blade of a fine old sort. They begged him to stay. "My regrets," said he, "But Newburyport is the place for me. Though I like it here, yet I aim to tack For my native town on the Merrimac. You'll please excuse me, for I'm going back." So he sailed back home, where he lived in state, With a coach and a poet-laureate; And he set up statues of men of fame, With Timothy Dexter among the same ; And he wronged no man nor was sued in tort, This blithe old fellow of a high old sort, Timothy Dexter of Newburyport. G. S. B. THE CONNING TOWER BOOK 143 Toet ^Accepting a J^aurel Wreath Good friend, if by a curious chance you burn With admiration for my life-long art, Do not expect my flattered eyes to turn Their beams on you, and open up my heart. Are you my master? Then you can but sigh At each weak phrasing of each shallow mood. Are you my equal? Then your serious eye Detects how much is bad, how little good. But if with bubbling praise you come to me, In the sealed letters which to me you bear Stands written — "This man is of low degree And in the servants' hall should take his fare, Give him his food, give him bed of hay, But at to-morrow's dawn, send him away! ARTHUR DAVISON FICKE 144 THE CONNING TOWER BOOK Susie to J£er £x- Young zJkCa/i Dear Frederick: Your letter was received. (Perhaps now I ought to call you Mr. Smith.) I always knew, and never quite believed, You had a girl that you was going with. I guess you thought my feelings might be hurt. How could they when I always understood You wasn't serious? You didn't flirt No more than I was willing that you should. I'll say you was a gentleman all right. You only kissed me once or twice in all, And that was when you're telling me good-night- Once towards the last of June, once in the fall. Then when we went to Coney, and the moon Come up, and we was sitting on the sand, Do you remember how they played that tune In the pavilion, and you held my hand? You got the nicest eyes, the sweetest laugh — I noticed them particular that time. THE CONNING TOWER BOOK 145 We got a Frankfurter, and each et half ; A gypsy told our fortunes all in rhyme. My future would be dark with curly hair. Your girl was going to be a blond, she said. You pinched my arm and claimed you didn't care What color her hair was, if it was red. I guess your girl is light. One day last week I saw you with a lady dressed in green. I started after you and meant to speak But didn't think I should of when I seen How you was taken up with her. I knew 'Twas someone you was pretty glad to see. It might have been your sister — that one you Have always said you wanted to meet me. Fred, I felt terrible, and you know why? I was afraid you saw me, and you'd think That I was snooping round you on the sly — I felt so bad I couldn't sleep a wink. I wouldn't hurt your feelings ever, dear. You are the one I call my closest friend, And no one else has seemed to come so near. Well, all good things, they say, must have an end. I've rambled on. I'm feeling sort of blue. My mother has been sick. My brother Bob Is making lots of trouble. Guess you knew A week ago they laid me off my job. 146 THE CONNING TOWER BOOK Well, life is funny, ain't it? There is some Gets what they wants, and some that never do. Drop in to see me. . . . No, Fred, don't you come. This is goodby. Your pal and comrade, Sue. \ ETHEL M. KELLEY Sxplicit: To Jfelen When I call you lovely, sweet, Others boast about your beauty, Flinging phrases at your feet In performance of a duty. Beauty is too perfect, quite, To be meant for mortal sight. Beauty has no soft caress; Beauty lies too far to capture. Hearts that look on loveliness Know of joy, and bliss, and rapture. Lovely things are things to touch; Beauty's but a poet's crutch. GEORGE JESTER THE CONNING TOWER BOOK 147 When West fames Cast I hail from high in the alkali Where the desert bones lie rotten; Where men set their faces to the open spaces, Forgetting and being forgotten. I was at my best, as I say, out West And my coming East was rash, For my strength is vain in a railway train — I never can raise the sash. I can tell — who knows — of a desert rose That bloomed where the coyote starts; Where the only sound for miles around Was the clash of primitive hearts. I can tell, of course, how my faithful horse Was my truest of pals — all that, But I never can tell, in a large hotel, Just when to remove my hat. Oh, ship me West in a leather vest With chaps on my corduroy pants; Back to the rows of baked plateaus Where the strongheart has a chance! Clean-limbed, clear-eyed, I'd be satisfied With the life I led before, — For I can never collect my self-respect When I use a revolving door. COREY FORD 148 THE CONNING TOWER BOOK The £overs They love to write, they love to read (Provided they've a Journal handy) ; They love, though it protest, to feed The cat with home-made cakes and candy. They love to eat, they love to drink — (I'm not averse myself to drinking) ; They love (this is a fact) to think That they are really fond of thinking. They love the thousand things above Their heads, like stars and Schopenhauer; They love to laugh, they love to love, They love to think they love The Tower. They love (or thick or thin) to run The gamut of their Dozen Daily; They love, because it's Just Clean Fun, To strum the soulful ukulele. They love (and it is quite the thing) To sport, at tennis, bright bandannas, They love to dance, they love to sing Sad strains of mammies and bananas. THE CONNING TOWER BOOK 149 They love to camp, they love to hike, They love to motor, golf and row; . . . Can someone tell me what they like?" I'd love to know. A. S. Cjratitude I pass through City Hall Park And Union Square Park And Madison Square Park . . . In fact, any park That has benches, And I see bewhiskered, Cowed and beaten forms Of what surely must have been Men. And I whisper to God: "I guess you never gave them A sweetheart Like mine." ARTURO 150 THE CONNING TOWER BOOK ZHe Is U^oi ^Desecrate Lift up the shuttered eyelids that were drawn On splendid pageantries once pictured there: — We are too tardy, they are centuries gone; There is no road to countries that they fare. And heed the pulse if it be swift to change, And listen at the lips if still they keep Some words that once were passionate and strange For one who heard. . .and smiled. . .and fell asleep. He is not desecrate; his life were all Inviolate still within his own brief day: Some joy of swords or April at his wall, Music. . .and heartbreak. . .and a name to say Of one who somehow touched his youth with dream, And passed, another leaf upon the stream. DAVID MORTON THE CONNING TOWER BOOK 151 The Qradle My Grandfather was born in Scituate On what they call now the Riverdale Farm. (The Turners bought it from William Brooks in 1837) . It's about two miles from the original Old Oaken Bucket, And before my Mother died We drove over there in a carry-all And she showed us the bank Where her Father, when a boy, used to "eat sand". Up in the great garret were many old cradles: of The Turners, the Wiswells, the Seaburys and all — And there we found Grandpa's cradle, Big and dark red, of painted maple, With long, thin, sharp rockers. I bought it for $3.50. I was proud to have that heirloom, I can tell you! We loaded it into the carry-all, And the rockers stuck out over the dash. On our summer verandah it kicked everybody who came near. I made a big crate for it and we shipped it to Boston. For many years I had it in my room. Every day I barked my shins against those rockers. It seemed as big as a house. So, when we moved, I just left it there all alone . . . 152 THE CONNING TOWER BOOK For over forty years Nathan Brooks was Town Clerk of Kingston, A sweet old man, beloved by everybody. He never smoked, never chewed, never swore, never drank, And never took a bath. I guess that's as good an heirloom to have As a wild, bucking cradle. GELETT BURGESS Some day you will come to me Wholly glad and wholly free, Singing like the little birds Sounds too happy for mere words, Singing through the April air, Heart unloosened like your hair, Blue eyes morning-clear, and face Sunlit, lifting its embrace. Some day this will happen, or What do men make heaven for? ROBERT L. WOLFE THE CONNING TOWER BOOK 153 Songs of Juiirly Utter "Despair I Now, alas, it is too late To buy Manhattan real estate, But when my father came to town He could have bought for fifty down, And I should not be where I am ; Yet does my father give-a-damn, Or ever say, "I'm sorry, boy," Or looking at me, murmur, "Oy!"? He does not grieve for what I've missed. And yet I'm called an Anarchist! II I'm tired of work, I'm tired of play, I'm lone by night and bored by day; A bachelor's life oppresses me And married life distresses me; — Tell me truly, if you can, Is this a way to treat a man? Ill I want to take a ship and go Abroad, but where I do not know: It isn't Paris, London, Rome, Nor Nagasaki, Naples, Nome, 154 THE CONNING TOWER BOOK Nor Honolulu, Teheran, Nor Servia, nor Afghanistan, And yet I want to take a ship And give the place I'm in the slip — Lord, tell me where I want to go ; Oh, give a man a decent show! IV My heart is broken, my life is ended, I can't decide if I want it mended; I know I can't go on this way, I'll have to make a choice some day, Be either desperate or resigned — Oh, help me to make up my mind! V This black predicament I sing: I do not want a single thing, And yet, not having kills me, too — Oh, what the devil shall I do? SAMUEL HOFFENSTEIN THE CONNING TOWER BOOK 155 To *A. ®. C To you who fill my heart with rhyme I give my poems all the time. For you who are my heart's delight I scribble far into the night, Until the dawn walks through the wood. And with her coming, if I could, I'd send her softly to your bed To drop a poem on your head. Bright it would lie against your hair, And if you felt it, tender, there — About as sweet a song for you As anybody ever knew. And even if you sensed it were A thing of flame and love, you'd stir And no more heed of it you'd take Than you do when you are awake. ELEANOR CHASE 156 THE CONNING TOWER BOOK 'Daphne and ^Apollo Ovid's Metamorphoses: Book I, Fable 12 You who know unrequited love, who know the tear of blighted love, Who'd leap into the lake at once — if it were not so cold — For you a tale P. Naso tells; this knowing guy — you'll say so! — tells Of Daphne and Apollo, and of love that blooms too bold. This Daphne was a wholesome wench : her skin showed not a mole ; some wench, To walk out with no clothes on and preserve un^ blemished flesh! She knew not what a leach is, and her face was cream and peaches, and The net result was that she found the men got pretty fresh. But it was not the custom then when they got gay to bust 'em; then She had to ask her dad, Peneus, please to acquiesce In guarding her virginity! Her papa thought a minute — he Was struck with much astonishment — but finally said Yes. THE CONNING TOWER BOOK 157 Yet grief was soon to follow: came a day when Don Apollo came Along the road, and saw her, sprawled beneath a sprawling oak. Cried he, "My heart's aglow! Miss, I'll escort you to my ^/omicyle To live and love!" And he was shocked when Daphne up and spoke: "Sir, there's a hitch, and this is it: I do not like your kisses; it Annoys me most extremely to be folded in your arms ! Your hug is too Gargantuan! Quite willingly I'll grant you an Extended leave of absence from what people call my charms." (She meant for him to go away.) He simply said to stow away That line of talk. Does she not know Apollo is the Sun? He'll go when he has made her his. . .No dad, no man could aid her. His Breath grew so hot upon her, Daphne started in to run. [A moment draw the curtain here; permit me to insert in here A word or two upon the theme I said that I should sing: If you would love and win your love, respect this token in your love: When woman says she will not love, she will not love a King!] 158 THE CONNING TOWER BOOK Though women waited woe-begone, and said to suitors, "No; be gone! We love Apollo only, though Apollo is not true," The object of their high regard that moment sought to buy regard Perversely from the only girl who scorned to let him woo. Too tragic life, to make men's wants be that which will not slake men's wants, To pine for that one passion which forever must be pent! Not that Apollo thought of this! He meditated naught of this; He chased the fleeting Daphne, like a hound upon the scent. The maid, by great endeavor, ran as fast as Wefers ever ran, But Paddock's, which is swifter, was the speed Apollo stole, So that — does it deject you all? — her flight was in- effectual : Again his breath was hot upon the skin-without-a- mole. Her feet began to flag; a knee gave way; she sank in agony By Pa Peneus's river, near a clump of laurel trees. Those days it was no sin to pray, and so she started in to pray That, to avoid Apollo's arms, she might be one of these. THE CONNING TOWER BOOK 159 Ah, was it not deplorable, to take such soft, adorable (And mole-less) flesh, and change it into hard, un- feeling bark! He lusted after symmetry: the river offered him a tree But, when he sought to hold a maid, he held part of a parkl Yet this much must be said for him: though Daphne now was dead for him, He showed his poker training, and he lost her with a grin. Said he, "She'd years to live; that gal had pluck! So I'll forgive that gal And, since she is a laurel, I'll make that the prize to winl "Though rules of rhyme be stricter, he shall own a greater victory Who will but come to know that chasing ladies is a curse; I'll crown him with the laurel-bough who, being called a bore, '11 bow And, rather than pursue the frail, will vent his spleen in verse I" ****** You who know unrequited love, who know the tear of blighted love, Who leave your plate untouched, oh, take this tip from Ovid's time: The more he pined, the more he ate; and he was poet- laureate! There is no prize for loving, but there's laurel in a rhyme! GEORGE JESTER 160 THE CONNING TOWER BOOK 'Resolution I was in the Harbor Snug as I could be — Pierrot whistled down the wind "Oh, come out to Seal" I was bruised and weary With sailing on the Sea: The Harbor held me in its arms And safely cradled me. I knew all about the Sea And what a Harbor meant; Pierrot whistled down the wind- And of course I went! WIOLAR THE CONNING TOWER BOOK 161 ^Doomsday n the hoof for Bigger Fleece: Too long a serf, too long oppressed By butterV egg men from the West, B' whiskered juries, blunt of wit, Who take two hours to acquit. I hope she finds her proper niche, Her why and wherefore, what and which, For, through the town I sadly roam, And note, her place is not the home. SAMUEL HOFFENSTEIN THE CONNING TOWER BOOK 171 £.egend Stories told of Ithaca And stories told of Troy, Stories told of sad folk And stories told of joy; All these stories do I know, But one know nothing of — And that's the story once I told To my first love. . . . Ah, what a well of faith was there And what a way I had, And how I'd like to talk to him, That wild young lad. How I'd like to hear his lies, And watch his face and see The trouble as he tried and tried Never to be me. ADUL TIMA 172 THE CONNING TOWER BOOK ^Variation on an Old Theme It is said that Miguel de Cervantes In his cell above the prison garden Writing at his book about Quixote, Scrivening endless, Looked him down and loved the keeper's maiden As she went her way about the prison Dressed forever in her white and crimson, Running in laughter; Looked and loved and sighed, and then remembered That he was not young, took up his ink-horn, Moved his quill, and drove the Don before him Through a whole morning. It is said that Sappho had her Phaon, Loved and lost, and that dark Homer carried One young curl of hair from that last autumn Before his blindness. That in his garden, walking with the roses, Dante, the old man, had his young love with him, Though she was dead and what it was her name was He had forgotten. THE CONNING TOWER BOOK 173 It is said the nightingale sings only Breast to thorn, and do you ask, girl lover, Breast to my breast, why I in this new springtime Sing now no longer? M. A. Dilemma All night I sit and ponder, I know not what to do, For I must choose between them- The old love. . .or the new? My new love is so handsome — My old love was so kind — How can I take the new one And leave the old behind? My new love is so merry To lose him I am loath. . . All night I sit and ponder How I may keep them both. VIOLA BROTHERS SHORE 174 THE CONNING TOWER BOOK Oh Take This £ittle £ong Oh, lake this little song, my love, You may not know A thousand kisses never given Have made it glow. Oh, take this little rhyme, my dear, And if you listen, You'll hear the dropping of the tears That made it glisten. Oh, take this little word, my sweet, A simple thing — But anguish of a thousand nights Has made it ring. Oh, you can never know, my love, How life is long; But since you will not have me, love, Oh, have my song. MARTHA THE CONNING TOWER BOOK 175 zAdvice to a Young Prophet Treacherous the road you tread With sharp flint and sucking ooze; Soon enough will it be red. Go not barefoot — take stout shoes. Bear no dreams upon your back — Hard they weigh when dried to dust. Make your kit a soldier's pack — Put in bitter herbs your trust. Seek no sign your soul above, Ask not heaven's help at need. Lean upon your staff of love Knowing it will prove a reed. Careful lest your heart be fed To the hunger of the sty! Hammer it a shield of lead Hollow as the brazen sky. Wear the shackles of your cause Lightly, nor expect the least Bending of the iron laws Binding man unto the beast. 176 THE CONNING TOWER BOOK When the gibbet or the stake Rears against the morning gray, Shall your mortal anguish make Sniggering fools a holiday. When the dry wind of the south Bee-like sips the blood — sweet dawn, Make no mealy martyr mouth — Shrug, and die like Phocion. Well, my lad, if you must go : Leap to lead your hope forlorn, Drain your brother's cup of woe Half in pity, half in scorn. J. M. S. The Irreversible zJfCetaphor (To Jean) Is it the beauty of the rose, Unfolding to my view, That stirs again this heart of mine To gentle thoughts of you? Or is it that the thought of you, Which sweetly in me glows, Can make me see each time anew The beauty of the rose? TROUBADOUR THE CONNING TOWER BOOK 177 "Battery "Park I Behind me lie the clumping streets, Before, the brawling harbor lies; But what of towns and what of fleets With such a sun and such blue skies? Oh, I could sit the whole day through, My dear, my dear, and think of you! Drowsy I watch with half an eye The pigeons flutter, marveling By two and two how close they fly, So very close there, wing to wing. Oh, I could sit the whole day long And never hear a sound but song! Oh, I could sit all day and hold Your hand and feel your shoulder press On mine, and feel the sun enfold Both in one flame of tenderness! And since you do not love me, dear, I am quite glad you are not here. II Misty with sun and stately sort I watch the great ships riding by, Outbound at flood-tide, out of port, 178 THE CONNING TOWER BOOK And gulls fly after with a cry. And here am I and now I'm free, And why not go myself to sea? Oh, many a time I could not bear, Many a time when you loved me, To watch the ships when they would fare Forth from the harbor, forth to sea! And many a time my heart has cried After a sail at flood of tide. But now I watch with listless gaze The stately vessels veering slow Down to the sea-rim brown with haze. Nor even wonder where they go. Ah, here am I and now I'm free And have no heart to go to sea! ZHappy Thought The world is so full of a number of people, I wish I could live on the top of a steeple. GERTRUDE PAHLOW THE CONNING TOWER BOOK 179 ^Beatrice T>ead When the news came that Beatrice was dead He fee'd the messenger without a word. They wondered what the book was that he read, Whispering, perhaps the old man had not heard. Within the garden when the moon has set He walks, and breathes the soft scent of her rose, Feels of his cheek and finds his eyes are wet And still goes' back and forth across the close. Long briers rise above the wall into The shadowy starlight; a dark window flares Quick-luminous; the hedge is touched with dew; Each roof-top a familiar contour wears .... "What was it that within the house they said?" He asked at last. "Said they some one was dead?" M. A. 180 THE CONNING TOWER BOOK %lan £ong With Piccolo Accompaniment Boldly we go to the battle, the Knights of the Ku Klux Klan, But never a sabre we rattle — it isn't a part of our plan ; The noise might awaken our foeman, and give him a chance in the fight; And we — we give quarter to no man, unless he's a Protestant white. Unless he's a Protestant white And his morals are strictly upright, We darn him and dern him And, sometimes, we burn him — Unless he's a Protestant white. When the rest of the world is a-sleeping, the Knights of the Ku Klux Klan Are softly and warily creeping to punish some Cath- olic man; And a hundred Ku Klux he-men will lynch him till he's dead — For this is the land of the freemen, and we want no Pope at the head. We want no Pope at the head : We want a Kleagle instead. A Catholic priest Is the thing we love least — We want no Pope at the head. THE CONNING TOWER BOOK 181 Doing the work that is God's, we ask no favors of fate But a hundred to one for our odds, and a Jew that we can bait. Our Lord was tortured by Kikes, and we give them blow for blow, And if it's not to their likes, why, they know where they can go. They know where they can go — Each Abie and Ikie and Moe: The Garden of Jueden — Or Russia — or Sweden — They know where they can go! And when there's no game bigger, the Knights oi the Ku Klux Klan Delight in lynching a Nigger (the coons are under our ban). For when life gets dull and duller, we never give up hope: We search for a man of color, and dangle him from a rope. We dangle him from a rope: We hold him as good as a Pope; To us he's no worse'n Some synagogue person — We dangle him from a rope. Scorning the coat of mail, we don but our good Knight shirt; Seeking no Holy Grail, but an alien or two to hurt. Grails for those who may want them! Ours be the worthier task 182 THE CONNING TOWER BOOK To scare little children and haunt them with fear of the hooded mask! To frighten with hood and with mask — What more could a gentleman ask? Unless he's a Nordic, Each Tom, Harry or Dick We frighten with hood and with mask. A stalwart band of paraders, upholding the law and its might, We are the fiercest crusaders that ever rode through the night. Woe to the wicked and shameless! They shall die but never scan A face of the gallant (and nameless) Knights of the Ku Klux Klan. So hey! for the Knights of the Klan! (Hooray!) They're strictly A-mer-i-can! (Hooray!) Ten bucks makes a gent A hundred per cent. — Sing hey! for the Knights of the Klan! MORRIE THE CONNING TOWER BOOK 183 The Cynic He is a cynic, a slow smile Is all he gives to "things worth while." With men and women he is chary: Experience has made him wary. He, by this pose, protects his soul That none may know it is not whole. He well could spare his bitter pains From those who see how small his gains. And if you'd have the simple fact, All his illusions are intact. CLAIR 184 THE CONNING TOWER BOOK To a J^gt of girls When I take you out to dances, To a movie, for a walk, Everywhere, it seems, romance is; Everywhere is lovers' talk. "Dear, I love you," "Dear, I love you," This the burden of their plea. By the sun that shines above you, How their chatter sickens me! When I take you for a bus ride, When a car is our caprice, Even then they won't let us ride In a moment's pleasant peace. "Dear, I love you", thus the suitor, "Dear, I love you", to his girl. How I yearn to burn the brute, or Chop to bits the babbling churl 1 In a cabaret or tea room, There they sit and sob and sigh. Nowhere is there now for me room, Nowhere room for such as I. "Dear, I love you." How it downs me! How it grates upon mine ear! For the din, my darling, drowns me When I say I love you, dear! GEORGE JESTER THE CONNING TOWER BOOK 185 "Ballade of "Big "Plans She loved him. He knew it. And love was a game that two could play at.— "Julia Cane" p. 280. Once the orioles sang in chorus, Once the skies were a cloudless blue. Spring bore blossoms expressly for us, Stars lined up to spell "YOU." All the world wore a golden hue, Life was a thing to be bold and gay at; Love was the only game I knew, And love is a game for two to play at. Now the heavens are scowling o'er us, Now the blossoms are pale and few. Love was a rose with thorns that tore us, Love was a ship without a crew. Love is untender, and love is untrue, Love is a moon for a dog to bay at, Love is the Lady-That's-Known-As-Lou, And love is a game for two to play at. Recollections can only bore us; Now it's over, and now it's through. Our day is dead as a dinosaurus. Other the paths that you pursue. What isi the girl in the case to do? What is she doing to spend her day at? Fun demands, at a minimum, two — And love is a game that two can play at. 186 THE CONNING TOWER BOOK i/envoi : Prince, I'm packing away the rue. I'll show them something to shout "Hooray" at. I've got somebody else in view: And love is a game that two can play at. DOROTHY PARKER "Planting "Bulbs Beneath brown earth I gently press The homely bulbs with confidence That spring will bring in recompense A rainbow of bright loveliness. Alas! if all our deeds should yield So surely the reward we sought, The future would be early bought And courage but a cast-off shield! CLAIR THE CONNING TOWER BOOK 187 In Q$ano Qorporc Your lips are sullen refuge For words whose strength has fled, Who, wearied of existence, Seek out their dying bed. At times you let them wander And linger in the sun, Then hurriedly you call them To slumber, one by one. Oh, you have rendered mobile The grave where you are laid : You conquer life by living A death that man has made. E. E. 188 THE CONNING TOWER BOOK "zAnd I S^all 3^£pet "Trace This Tath tAgai?" And I shall never trace this path again, Nor take the brackish ocean in my eyes Along this coast, nor ever walled in rain, Wait in these hemlocks while the high wind cries, And you will never keep your tryst with me. Over and over I must siay this through, Lest I, forgetting that such things can be, Come back and wait, come back and wait for you. Singers of things gone by, of things far gone Into the dark, I claim for mine your breath; All you have sung and said, all that is done Beyond recall, cover her sweets with death, So that in night, half waking, it will not seem She has come back to me, even in dream. M. A. THE CONNING TOWER BOOK 189 The Qerebralists T>escribe a Woman MAXWELL BODENHEIM Spontaneous vacuity promulges From pool-tortured eyes. Modesty vies for dominance With boredom Simulated to an egregious degree. Staid hands Join in garrulous clasp beneath a nose Nine-tenths removed from immobility. T. S. ELIOT Crepuscular benignance flaunts Its languor with perversive glee Arrayed from epiglottis to Calm glabrous pedal digets, she Sits. Witness the chaotic mouth Defining quasi-pious hymns; Observe, regard, look on, perceive, — And endless other synonyms. EZRA POUND Head . . . Too long . . . Dolichocephalic . . . 190 THE CONNING TOWER BOOK E. E. CUMMINGS replete with sullen amorousness her face (always alert to muliebrity) obtrudes a callous confidence: a trace of psychic manliness; to render her free from such a taint were an accomplishment worthy of some one versed in freudian lore and blest with brain of psychologic bent; but what is that to you, i shall not bore you further with impetuous flanconnade. anent hermaphroditic states of mind (tho well inveigling) : rather let be laid before you what the surface-seer would find : rich hair corrupted with its opulence and hands that pluck the harp of innocence. SIMONETTA THE CONNING TOWER BOOK 191 The (§wamp ips I show you my bayberry dips; We speak of their manifold charms — But you only think of my lips, And I of your sheltering arms. Yet now that I rest in your arms, And you have drunk deep of my lips Say, are there not manifold charms In the beauty of bayberry dips? ELLEN VANE 206 THE CONNING TOWER BOOK ^Heresy for a Qlassroom Green willows are for girls to study under When that green lady, Spring, strolls down the street. Look out the window, Jean, look out and wonder About their unseen earth-embedded feet: Under the dark uncoloured mouldy clay Where willow roots are thrust, their life is drawn Up through their limbs, to burst in bud, and sway Slow-shaken green festoons above the lawn. So never doubt that gloom turns into light As winter into April, or as gloom Breaks on the barren branches overnight — Little enough is learned in any room Wiih black-board walls, on afternoons like these: O Jean, look out the windows) at the trees! ROLFE HUMPHRIES THE CONNING TOWER BOOK 207 zAndre Masses Along the sunlit Nepperhan, That clear September day, A rider drew his bridle-rein And paused beside the way. Two children at a farmhouse door He hailed — they quickly ran To give him water from the well Along the Nepperhan. They brought him water from the well- Small David held the rein And wondered why that cavalier Rode down that country lane; Shy Sally watched the stranger drink Before the farmhouse door, And wondered why so close he wrapped The swanskin cloak he wore. He drank, and from the saddle leaned To hand a sixpence down To Sally; then of David asked "How far to Tarrytown — To Tarrytown how long the road?" "Four miles," the lad replied. "I did not think," the stranger said, "It was so long a ride." 208 THE CONNING TOWER BOOK Ah, rider in the swanskin cloak, If short or long the way, You shall not come to Tarrytown This fair September day. But all those days these two shall tell About the stranger-man Who asked for water from the well Beside the Nepperhan. G. S. B. To a Qirl with Tlvo £yes If ever I shall go to hell, I think that I shall fool The devil, and defy the heat — Because your eyes are cool. Or if to heaven I shall go, I think I shall not fear To gaze into the face of God — Because your eyes are clear. Oh, just because your eyes are cool, Because your eyes are clear, You are my hope of happiness In heaven, or hell — or here! GEORGE JESTER THE CONNING TOWER BOOK 209 Sun Qo "Parc/i . . . Sun go parch or cloud go pour, 'Tis no sky I'm thinking of. I go singing, I that am Off to meet my love. Tower go fall or roof go flame, Ask me neither thought nor tear. I am thinking what to say When I greet my dear. Woe is all the world, it seems, This man dies, and that man will. Woe is me, how can I know If she love me still? Yet ah! mourners, chide me not Grayly as your hearse creeps by, That I caper, that I hum, That I cannot sigh! I am off to meet my love, I shall have no word to say, I shall greet her mouth to mouth In a singing way. LEONARD CLINE 210 THE CONNING TOWER BOOK nAn explanation When I was a boy and I went to school They learned me the words of the Gilded Rule : "Remember your manners and always do What People of Consequence tell you to." A college professor has brains to spare (Though hardly as much as a millionaire), And sure, when his backing is good and strong, A clergyman never would guide you wrong; So what should I do when I'm just a cop And he is a Reverend Archbu/zo/>? Enough: 'Tis the word of a Grand Bashaw; You needn't to bother about the law. He knows what is black and he knows what's white; Whatever he wants you to do is right. He told me they wasn't to speak at all. You don't need a warrant to clear a hall. He told me to tell them to stir their stumps; When "Clubs!" is the order, then clubs is trumps. What else would it be when I'm just a cop And he is a Reverend Archbishop} And oh, 'tis a blessing to know the whim Of wise and infallible folks like him! And if he should tell me to take and go THE CONNING TOWER BOOK 21 1 And shut up a play or a movie show, To break up a dance or perhaps a strike Or burn a few books that he failed to like, To lock a few lads in a dungeon cell And smash a few heads in the bargain, — well, What else would I do when I'm just a cop And he is a Reverend Archbishop? ARTHUR GUITERMAN The Qheerful Cfiver I would give thee, my love, fair things; I would give thee jade and turquoise, Sandalwood and stained ivory, diamonds, And a bowl of amethyst. I would give thee a cloak of ermine, And a scarf, all of silk, threaded with platinum. All of these rare things, and fair, Would I give thee, my love, and more. In the mean time, accept this New Year's card As a token of my esteem. JOHN MCMASTER 212 THE CONNING TOWER BOOK Shopping T>ay Beauty blue and beauty white, Beauty of the day and night, Be of her the flesh and bone, Be her beauty and your own. Make her step be light and proud Going in a gown of cloud, Make her scarves of trailing blue Cut from each day's sky anew. Beauty, rob as for a goddess Autumn of her brightest bodice; Be she true or be she flirt, Of a green tree make the skirt. Weave from dusk and dawn to measure Fairy frocks when she's in pleasure, Or if she must walk in pain Drape about her silver rain. Set upon her midnight hair Lighted stars to scatter care, Make of mountain stream her train, And her plumes of waving grain. THB CONNING TOWER BOOK 213 If she walks in heaven or hell, Beauty dress her body well. Beauty blue and beauty white Be her own by day and night. ORRICK JOHNS ffir ^(inette I comb your hair, I wash your face, I button up your frock; But at the door of your heart's place I only knock. I teach you work and play, and fold Your hands at night for prayer, But something stirs I cannot hold — Like sunlight there. I open all the fairy-lands That I have ventured through, But never touch with clumsy hands The fairy you! MIMI 214 THE CONNING TOWER BOOK "Perhaps The linen on my pillow Is of a silky thread; But on its soothing texture, Restless, I toss my head. Upon some love-sick maiden's Loom has the web been spun; Some sad-eyed girl has borne it To whiten in the sun. Perhaps it is her sorrow That keeps me from my rest — My own is deeply hidden, 'Tis safe within my breast. Mayhap it is her trouble — My own I have forgot — That keeps me wan and wakeful So late upon my cot. JULIA GLASGOW THE CONNING TOWER BOOK 215 <§ome 'Beautiful Jitters OBSERVATION If I don't drive around the park, I'm pretty sure to make my mark. If I'm in bed each night by ten, I may get back my looks again. If I abstain from fun and such, I'll probably amount to much. But I shall stay the way I am, Because I do not give a damn. SOCIAL NOTE Lady, lady, should you meet One whose ways are all discreet, One who murmurs that his wife Is the lodestar of his life, One who keeps assuring you That he never was untrue, Never loved another one . . . Lady, lady, better run. NEWS ITEM Men seldom make passes At girls who wear glasses. 216 THE CONNING TOWER BOOK INTERVIEW The ladies men admire, I've heard, Would shudder at a wicked word. Their candle gives a single light; They'd rather stay at home at night. They do not keep awake till three, Nor read erotic poetry. They never sanction the impure, Nor recognize an overture. They shrink from powders and from paints . . So far, I have had no complaints. COMMENT Oh, life is a glorious cycle of song, A medley of extemporanea; And love is a thing that can never go wrong; And I am Marie of Rumania. RESUME Razors pain you; Rivers are damp; Acids stain you; And drugs cause cramp. Guns aren't lawful; Nooses all give; Gas smells awful ; You might as well live. DOROTHY PARKER THE CONNING TOWER BOOK 217 S on S °f Travel Oh, London is a fine town, With chimney-pots all in rows, And London beer is good beer, And swell are London clothes; One can smoke in the Underground, And have tea at a matinee — So why should any one ever want To go back to the U. S. A.? Oh, Paris is a fine town Where the pretty girls wear no clothes- (At least they don't at the Moulin Rouge And such-like similar shows!) — Champagne costs* next to nothing, And taxi-fares are a joke — So why should any one ever think Of going back home till he's broke? Oh, London town and Paris Are mighty fine towns to see — So why should any one ever dream Of a place where he'd rather be? Why should he sit in the Cafe Royal, Why should he sit at the Dome, Dreaming always of Westchester roads And Westchester hillsi at home? 218 THE CONNING TOWER BOOK Mount Airy is a small hill With houses up and down, And one of them is my house, A mile from Croton town: There'll be nothing to see but a patch of river, Gold in the slanting sun, And the last bright wind-blown leaves of the oak trees Falling, one by one! London and Paris are big, big places, And rich with what has been, But my heart is a little heart And cannot take them in — I want to sit on my porch in the dusk And hear the katydids' song: Mount Airy is a little place, And that's where I belong! F D. THE CONNING TOWER BOOK 219 The ^Armistice T>ay 'Parade "I shall not march," said the Major, "In the Armistice Day Parade. It ill becomes a man of my station — Different matter, man from the ranks — To fall in step with the foes of his nation: I refer to these pacifist cranks Who'd give us a Peace at any Cost, Think of it, after the men we've lost! The gallant lads we've lost. I'm a bit upset, as you can see. They've rather spoiled the day for me, If the truth were known," said the Major. "Now Armistice Day," said the Major, "These chaps don't get it right. 'Twas set apart by the U. S. A. Not so much to think and pray, As lest we forget the glorious dead Who fell in the cause of right," he said, "And those two minutes at 11 A. M., D'ye know how you ought to make use of them? Just keep in mind the mud and the guns And Flanders Field, and the stinking Huns, And you can't go wrong," said the Major. 220 THE CONNING TOWER BOOK "It's a solemn day," said the Major, "And it mustn't be taken so light." "This Peace on Earth," said the Major, "This Peace on Earth, Good Will to Men, Is a beautiful motto to work in yarn But written out in ink with a pen — Oh, well, hang it all, where men are men It just isn't mentioned," said the Major. "Peace on earth is a fine ideal, But men are human and life is real. Take the army, for instance," said the Major. "Peace on earth wouldn't work worth a darn On the army, now would it?" said the Major. "Ha, ha, ha!" said the Major, "Ha, ha, not worth a darn." "Take a man like me," said the Major, "A man that's trained at some expense To jerk his elbow and click his heels, He can't sit around like a hatching hen, He must have a little war now and then — I mean, of course, a war of defence — Or he can't digest his meals. And now here comes these pacifist Yids And drag in peace, and spoil the procession. Good Lord, a soldier's wife and kids Have got to eat, and war's a profession Same as clergy," said the Major. "If you went and abolished war," said he, "Where in hell would the army be? Dear me, yes," said the Major, "Where would the army be?" NANCY BOYD THE CONNING TOWER BOOK 221 Instructions for zMy Jnineral When I am dead, be certain that you bring A coffin long and wide enough to hold All of my favorite griefs; and in one fold Of my white gown conceal some sharp-edged thing, So that my body have no less of pain Than it has grown accustomed to endure; The lilies that you bring must not be pure, But each must have upon it some light stain Of blood or dust; for I have never had A perfect thing to hold; and if you make A farewell speech, be careful, for my sake, That none of your low words be very sad. I want no unfamiliar thing to be Laid in my coffin when you bury me. H. M. 222 THE CONNING TOWER BOOK s? V S9 ! 3 / t>