by OIiverHerford * '< University of California Berkeley The Theodore H. Koundakjian Collection of American Humor au Vfrsyto vi>cu PEN AND INKLINGS BY OLIVER HERFORD NEW YORK GEO. M. ALLEN COMPANY BROADWAY, CORNER 2 1ST STREET COPYRIGHT 1893 BY OLIVER HERFORD PH6I6" 1 / Acknowledgment is made to the editors of "Life," and to Messrs. Harper Bros. ONCE Cupid, he Went on a spree And made a peck of trouble, "Ah ha!" cried he "Two hearts I see!" Alack the rogue saw double. There was but one ; What has he done ? How could he be so stupid ? Into one heart Two arrows O Cupid, Cupid, Cupid ! In truth 'tis sweet When ' ' two hearts beat As one " but what to do When in one heart Two arrows smart And one heart beats as two ? Y A POST-MORT-D' ARTHURIAN LEGEND. E log burns low, ye feaste is donne, Twelve knyghtes of ye Table Rounde Slyde down fromme ye benches, one by one, And snore upon ye ground. Ye log to a dimme blue flame has died, When ye doore of ye banquet halle Is opened wide, and in there glyde Twelve spectral Hagges ande Talle. Ye log burns dimme, and eke more dimme, Loud groans each knyghtlie gueste, As ye ghoste of his grandmother, gaunt and grimme, Sitts on each knyghte hys cheste. Ye log in pieces twaine doth falle, Ye daye beginnes to breake, Twelve ghostlie grandmothers glyde from ye halle, And ye twelve goode knyghtes awake. Ande ever whenne Mynce Pye was placed On ye table frome thatte daye, Ye Twelve knyghtes crossed themselves in haste Ande looked ye other waye. B Jfable. IT was a hungry pussy cat Upon Thanksgiving morn, And she watched a thankful little mouse That ate an ear of corn. " If I eat that thankful little mouse, How thankful he should be, When he has made a meal himself, To make a meal for me ! " Then, with his thanks for having fed And his thanks for feeding me With all his thankfulness inside How thankful / shall be ! " Thus "mewsed" the hungry pussy cat Upon Thanksgiving Day. But the little mouse had overheard, And declined (with thanks) to stay. TUpon a Cast. A YOUTH and a maid went a-fishing one day One sunshiny morning in May ; She with a sketch book, he with a fly, And little they guessed that Cupid so sly That Cupid himself was fishing hard by Was fishing just over the way. Cupid's bow was unstrung on that morning in May, And made with the bowstring a fish-pole that day ; And over the way, had he happened to look, Sate he of the fishing-rod, she of the book, Little thinking that Cupid was fishing the brook, The very same brooklet as they. And so it fell out as they angled away, A big shiny carp came a-swimming that way ; And as in a moment they each made a cast, Cupid's line caught the line of the youth as it passed, And tangled him up with the maiden so fast In a tangle so witchingly woven they say, It has not been untied since that morning in May. 6 6 -pjHYLLIS, if I cculd I'd paint you As I see you sitting there, You distracting little saint, you, With your aureole of hair. If I only -were an artist, And such glances could be caught, You should have the very smartest Picture frame that can be bought ! "Phyllis, since I can't depict your Charms, or give you aught but fame, Will you be yourself the picture? Will you let me be the frame? Whose protecting clasp may bind you Always " "Nay," cried Phyllis; "hold, Or you'll force me to remind you Pictures must be framed with gold!" H 3lox>e HE was a Wizard's son, She an Enchanter's daughter; He dabbled in Spells for fun. Her father some magic had taught her. They loved but alas ! to agree Their parents they couldn't persuade. An Enchanter and Wizard, you see, Were naturally rivals in trade And the market for magic was poor There was scarce enough business for two ; So what started rivalry pure Into hatred and jealousy grew. Now the lovers were dreadfully good ; But when there was really no hope, After waiting as long as they could, What else could they do but elope ? They eloped in a hired coupe ; And the youth, with what magic he knew Made it go fully five miles a day. (Such wonders can sorcery do !) Then the maiden her witcheries plied, And enchanted the cabman so much, When they got to the end of their ride Not a cent of his fare would he touch ! Now they're married and live to this day In a nice little tower, alone, For the building of w^hich, by the way, Their parents provided the stone. Then the parents relented ? Oh, no ! They pursued with the fury of brutes, But arrived just to late for the show, Through a leak in their seven league boots ; And finding their children were wed, Into such a wild rage they were thrown, They rushed on each other instead And each turned the other to stone. Then the lovers, since lumber was high, And bricks were as then quite unknown, As soon as their tears were quite dry They quarried their parents for stone. And now in a nice' little tower, In Blissfulness tinged with Remorse, They live like as not to this hour (Unless they have got a divorce). Crime, Wickedness, Villainy, Vice, And 5m only misery bring ; If you want to be Happy and Nice, Be good and all that sort of thing. Seefee. o Love Hys /^~\ NE day beneathe a willowe tree, Game. \ J Love met a mayde moste faire to see ; "Come play at hyde and seeke," cried he. "With alle my hearte!" quoth she. "I'm it !" Love cries, and rounde hys eyes A scarfe the maiden bindeth, And inne and oute and rounde aboute Ye willowe trees he windeth Yette ne'er the maiden findeth. Stille inne and oute and rounde aboute, And stille no maiden meetinge ; Till piqued, ye rogue unbinds hys eyes, And, perched upon a branch, espies Ye mayde retreatinge ; "Fie! Fie!" cries Love "you're cheetinge!" Love, Hys "Now, you," quothe he, "must seeke for me!' Revenge. She binds her eyes, assentinge, And inne and oute and rounde aboute, Seeks she for Love relentinge But Love, they say alas, ye day! Has spread his wings and flown away, And left ye mayde lamentinge, And left ye mayde repentinge. Ube fficfele Calendar. SPRING. IN a. lane a careless mortal Meets a maiden merry As by chance they come together, Someone ventures "Charming weather! Someone murmurs "Very ! " SUMMER. AT her feet a lazy mortal Whiffs his cares away, Reads the while in eyes provoking Volumes on the vice of smoking. Who could disobey ? AUTUMN. IN the train a lovesick mortal Doesn't care to smoke, Feels he says a strange abhorrence. Tries to think of rhymes to Florence Sonnets are no joke. WINTER. ON the street a bustling mortal Dons his city manners, To a paper takes his sonnet, And with what he raises on it, Gets some more Havanas. THE politest musician that ever was seen Was Montague Meyerbeer Mendelssohn Green. So extremely polite he would take of his hat Whenever he happened to meet with a cat. "It's not that I'm partial to cats," he'd explain; " Their music to me is unspeakable pain. There's nothing that causes my flesh so to crawl As when they perform a G-flat caterwaul. Yet I cannot help feeling in spite of their din- When I hear at a concert the first violin Interpret some exquisite thing of my own, If it were not for cat gut I'd never be known. And so, when I bow as you see to a cat, It isn't to her that I take off my hat ; But to fugues and sonatas that possibly hide Uncomposed in her well in her tuneful inside ! In tbe Cafe. I P. M. HE sits before me as I write, And talks of this and that, And all my thoughts are put to flight By his infernal chat. I came to write a tender rhyme To Phyllis or to Mabel, And chose in this retired cafe The most secluded table. He came before I'd time to fly, And ere I could refuse, Had filled the very chair that I Was keeping for the muse ! Then came the deluge down it came In one unceasing pour Of science, crops, photography, Religion, soups and war. i . 30 Forsooth the flood of words that flows From this secluded table Will soon be great enough to swamp A dozen towers of Babel. 2.30 And still he stays, and still the flood Is rising as before ; 3.30 Without a sign of shore. 5 _N. B. I feel like Ararat, While he resembles Noahr. Great Scott! He's going! " No, must you go ? Don't tear yourself away! What have I written? Oh, some trash A sort of Fairy-lay, Of how a dreadful ogre Caught a luckless youth one day, And drowned him in a flood of well, If you must go good day ! " Phyllis or Mabel ! pray forgive / had to pay him out ; I'll write that tender rhyme to you Some other day, no doubt. H IRomance in E'D discussed every modern composer, In the course of a friendly chat, When I casually ask if she knows a "Romance" by Van Thump in B-rJat. W "No, really," she "couldn't quite say er ' If ever she'd heard it or not, So I jumped up and offered to play her A few bars from the piece on the spot. "Perhaps you had better postpone it," She answered, in accents of fear ; "The piano I blush when I own it Has been out of tune for a year." I replied that it didn't much matter, Just to give an idea of the air, Then I opened the lid with a clatter, And she fainted away in a chair. And when she had wholly recovered Which she did in a moment or more That I never tell what I'd discovered She begged me to swear, and I swore. And now when I happen to call there You don't catch me offering to play A "Romance" on her "Chickering" bedstead, For the thing "isn't built that way." NCE to a man a goblin came And said to him, ' ' If you will name Three wishes, whatsoe'er they be, They shall be granted instantly. Think of three things you deem the best, Express your wish l we do the rest.' " "O Goblin!" cried the man, "indeed You're just the kind of a friend I need. Hunger and Want I've known thus far, I fain would learn what Riches are." "Then," cried the Goblin, "learn it well, T(iches are title deeds to Hell! Now wish again." " Alackaday!" Exclaimed the man. ' ' I've thrown away, And all for naught, a chance immense ; I only wish I had some sense !" The Goblin waived his hand the Dunce To his surprise was wise for once. And being wise, he laughed, and said: "I am a fool would I were dead ! " ******* "Granted!" the Goblin yell'd, "it's plain You'll never be so wise again." Ube Witch's Daughter. A FAIRY TALE. ONCE there lived a wicked witch, In a dark and dreadful wood ; She had hair as black as pitch, And her^teeth were far from good. . In the corners of her eyes Mr. Crow had set his feet ; And, indeed, tho' she was wise, You could scarcely call her sweet. With this dire and dreadful dame Lived the loveliest of girls Caramella was her name. She, of course, had teeth like pearls, Golden hair and eyes of blue, Not to mention cheeks of pink In short, as like the witch as dew Is to stylographic ink. All around the country side, Stormy nights, the wicked witch On her flying broom would ride, Feared alike by poor and rich. Where'er she cast her evil eye Children would be seized with fits ; Corn would rot and cows run dry (Even watchmen lost their wits). But the lovely Damozel, Caramella, strange to say, Wrought an even greater spell, Tho' in quite another w r ay. Princes worshipped at her shrine Till, alas ! her ma they saw ; Even princes draw the line At a witch for mother-in-law. First among her lovers fine Was the good Prince Shandigaff ; To the rest as pearls to swine, Or September wheat to chaff. He would wed her any day Were her ma more comme ilfaut; "Hang it she's a witch !" he'd say, "That is quite too awfully low." So he pined away instead In some horrid torrid clime ; But he hastened back to wed Caramella just in time. The witch, he'd learned, was one fine day Of her tricks forever cured In the good old-fashioned way (And was heavily insured). THE Infant Earth one April day (the first of April so they say) When toddling on her usual round Spied in her path upon the ground A dainty little garland ring Of violets and that was Spring. She caught the pretty wreath of Spring And all the birds began to sing, But when she thought to hold it tight 'Twas rudely jerked from out her sight; And while she looked for it in vain The birds all flew away again. Alas ! The flowering wreath of Spring Was fastened to a silken string, And Time, the urchin, laughed for glee (He held the other end, you see). And that was long ago, they say, When Time was young and Earth was gay. Now Earth is old and Time is lame Yet still they play the same old game : Old Earth still reaches out for Spring And Time well Time still holds the string. 1be t Sbe anfc 1Tt ; OR, LOVE'S LABOR LOST. HE (before writing It). NOW Maud is offended again ! And again I've got into a tight place. If only my tongue I could train Just to say the right thing in the right place ! And now I must write and explain How her feelings at rest she may quite place, If on my rash words she will deign But to place the construction she might place. IT. When you asked if I should miss you, dear, And I answered, " Out of sight Is out of mind," for this you dear! You call me ' ' impolite " Now had you read me right, my dear, You surely had divined That when you go out of my sight, my dear. Then / go out of my mind ! SHE (after reading It}. Poor fellow ! he had a hard time That time I and without hesitation I grant him the palm for sublime And ingenious extenuation I knew 'twas a jest all the time That parting remark at the station ! But his efforts when put down to climb Back into my high estimation Are really so funny that I'm Quite too weak to resist the temptation. Ube ^Difference. N the spring the Leaves come out And the little Poetlets sprout ; Everywhere they may be seen, Each as Fresh as each is Green. Each hangs on through scorch and scoff Till the fall, when both "come off," With this difference, be it said, That the leaves at least are Red. A CHRISTMAS LEGEND. BENEATHE an ancient oake one daye A holye friar kneeled to praye, Scarce hadde he mumbled Aves three When lo ! a voice within the tree ! Straighte to the friar's hearte it wente, A voice as of some spirit pente Within the hollow of the tree That cried "Good father, ..sette me free ! " Quoth he, " This hath an evil sounde.' Ande bente him lower to the grounde. But ever tho' he prayed, the more The voice hys pytie didde implore, Untyl he raised hys eyes ande there Behelde a may den ghostlie faire. Thus to the holy manne she spoke : " Within the hollow of this oak, " Enchanted for a hundred yeares, " Have I been Sounde yet vain my teares " Notte anything can breake the batnie " Till I be kiss'd by holye manne." "Woe 's me!" thenne sayd the friar; "if thou " Be sente to tempt me breake my vowe, 1 ' Butte whether mayde or fiende thou be " I'll stake my soul to sette thee free." The holye marine then crossed hym thrice, And kissed the mayde when in a trice She vanished " Heaven forgive me now ! " Exclaimed the friar " my broken vowe." 4 ' If I have sinned I sinned to save " Another fromme a living grave ; " Thenne downe upon the earth he felle, And prayed some sign that he might telle If he were doomed evermore ; When lo ! the oake alle bare before Put forth a branch of palest greene, And fruited everywhere betweene, With waxen berries, pearlie white, A miracle before hys sight. The holye friar wente hys waye And told hys tale And from thatte daye It hath been writ that anye manne May blamelesse kiss what mayde he canne Nor anyone shall say hym " no " Beneath the holye mistletoe. H Golfc ONCE when it was cold and bluff, Cupid hid in Mabel's muff. " Mabel's little hands," quoth he, " Warm as any nest will be, Here I'll stay and take mine ease." On a sudden came a squeeze Startled, Love exclaimed, "What's this? " Surely something is amiss! " Looked at Mabel's hands to see What the matter was " Dear me ! ' ' Do mine eyes deceive ? or can " One of Mable's gloves be tan " And the other gray? that's odd, " Both right hands, as I'm a god! " Mabel ! Mabel ! have a care ! " Two right hands don't make a pair. " I'll be off," quoth Love, "it's clear " I am little needed here. ' ' Bitter though the March wind be, " This is much too warm for me ! " Ube Gussefc H)amo3el. A LOVER sate alone All by the Golden Gate And made exceedynge moan Whiles he hys Love didde wait. To him One coming prayed Why he didde weepe. Said he, ' ' I weepe me for a maid Who cometh notte to mee." ' ' Alas ! I waite likewise My Love these many years ; Meseems 'twould save our eyes If we should pool our tears." And so they weeped full sore A twelvemonth and a daye, Till they could weepe no more, For notte a tear hadde they. When as they came to see They could not weepe alway, Each of hys Faire Ladyee 'Gan sing a rondelay. " My Love hath golden hair," Sang one, " and like the wine The red lips of my Fair." The other sang, " So's mine." " My Love is wondrous wise," Sang one, " and wondrous fine And wondrous dark her eyes." The other sang, " 5o's mine." She plighted ere I died Eternal troth to me." Good lack," the other cried, "E'en so she plighted me ! " Beside my bier she swore She would be true to me, For aye and evermore, Unto eternityee." 1 ' My Love is wondrous proud, And her name is Geraldyne." ' ' Thou liest ! " shrieked aloud The other. ' ' She is mine ! ' ' The twain didde then agree, In their most grievous plight, To fly to earth and see The which of them was right. Alack and well-a-daye ! A-well-a-daye alack! Eft soons they flew away, Eft sooners flew they back. For when they had come there They were not fain to stay, To Geraldyne the Paire Her silver weddyng daye. ZTbe Stiver SLming, HEN poets sing of lovers' woes, And blighted lives and throbs and throes And yearnings goodness only knows It's all a pose. I am a poet too, you know, I too was young once long ago, And wrote such stuff myself, and sa I ought to know. I for my stricken heart found balm In sonnets to Amanda's calm High brow, or Julia's lily palm Or perfect arm. Which, when she scorned, did I resign To flames, and go into decline ? Not much ! When sonnets fetched per line Enough to dine. So, reader, when you read in print A poet's woe beware and stint Your tears and take this gentle hint- It is his mint. When Julia's "fair as flowery mead," Or when she " makes his heartstrings bleed," Know then she's furnishing his feed Or fragrant weed And even as you read who knows, Like cannibal that eats his foes, He dines off Julia's " heart Or "cheek of Rose." TTbe point ot tyiew* ON the top of the world, where there's lots of snow As all the geographies say, A small Esquimau, just to make the time go, Was building a Snow Man one day. Now it happened by chance that two Polar Bears Came strolling along that way ; " Perhaps it is none of our affairs, But what are you making ?" said they. "A Snow Man, of course," said the Esquimau; The Bears gave a comical stare ; Said they, " If you must make a person of snow, Why on earth don't you make a Snow Bear ?" He sat himself down for a moment to think Of some suitable sort of reply, When a Penguin, two Foxes, a Seal, and a Mink, And a Walrus came wandering by. They stopped just a casual look to take, A casual word to say, And each had a trifling suggestion to make In a patronizing way. The Penguin said, " Really, it isn't half bad, And shows lots of promise, you know ; Yet I think, for my part, though perhaps it's a fad, A Snow Penguin were more apropos." The Foxes, the Seal, and the Mink were afraid; They knew little of art, so they said, But they thought he would show better taste if he made A Fox, Seal, or Mink in its stead. The Walrus said nothing, nor listened, but when They'd finished, he ventured to say, " It doesn't look much like a Walrus, but then Perhaps when it's finished it may." They turned then to go ; but the Esquimau Alas ! he was seen no more ; The heat of his anger and shame and chagrin Had melted the snow where the crust was thin, And he'd sunk, so to speak, through the floor. ITbe parrot anfc tbe Gucfeoo* A TRAGEDY. SCENE: The vicinity of the Cuckoo Clock. Cuckoo discovered in the act of telling three o'clock. Parrot watching from' a perch near by. CUCKOO: Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Cuckoo! PARROT : Hark, there she goes ! To hear her any parrot would suppose She owned the earth, conceited little thing, She really seems to fancy she can sing. And, though you'll scarce believe, that little bird Rules the whole blessed household with a word. She only has to call " Cuckoo ! " and lo ! The family at once to luncheon go. When she screams " Cuckoo! " twice it is the rule For all the little ones to march to school- Then when she screams six times that is a sign That Cuckoo thinks it's time for them to dine. And so it goes through all the livelong day, She tells them what to do and they obey. And as for me, they treat me like a doll And mimic me and call me " Pretty Poll," And ask me several million times a day, " Does Polly want a cracker ?" by the way I've yet to see that cracker oh, sometimes I gnash my beak, or mutter nursery rhymes Or anything ! for fear I should let slip The wicked words they taught me on the ship, Those naughty sailors, when long, long ago They brought me from the land where spices grow And palm trees wave, and Cuckoos do not rule, And tell folks when to bed and when to school And when to go to dinner. Never mind! my time will come, As that vain bird will find unto her sorrow. Yes, the die is cast ! Next time the Cuckoo squawks will be her last. Next time she tries CUCKOO (striking four o'clock}: Cue " Cuckoo ! Cuckoo ! Cuckoo ! PARROT : Come, now, have done ! we're heard enough from you ! Prepare to die ! your little reign is o'er, Over this house you'll tyrannize no more ! What ! won't you come ? then I'll soon show you how ! (Smashes the Cuckoo to bits, causing the machinery to run down.} There ! stop that whirring ; heavens, what a row ! Help ! stop it, some one ! (It stops.) Well, upon my word, You're tough for such a very little bird, I thought you'd never die! and now, my dear, The family will very soon be here, And when they see how little's left of you They'll be so glad they won't know what to do To think the Cuckoo's killed and they are free To work or play or sleep or take their tea Just when they please and, most of all, how jolly To feel they owe it all to "Pretty Polly ! " Curtain. "it's never too late to laugb." English 'Proverb. ! I o NCE on a time it so befell, Or so it is averred, That in the utmost depths of hell A merry laugh was heard. Thereat for once the ghostly crew Forgot their teeth to gnash, And trembling asked each other who In hell cotild be so rash. Up rose the Prince with darkening brow And pointing with his staff, Bade one stand forth and tell him how In hell he came to laugh. Then from the silent, ghostly throng A voice was heard to break, It had a British accent strong And there was no mistake. ' ' Oh come ! I say ! upon my word I had to laugh," he cried, "I've caught the point of a joke I heard Ten years before I died!" Blossome dometb .tSetore 13e SLeate* ONCE hoary Winter chanced alas ! Alas ! hys waye mistaking, A leafless apple tree to pass Where Spring lay dreaming : ' ' Fie ye lass ! Ye lass had best be waking," Quoth he, and shook hys robe and lo ! Lo ! forth didde flye a cloud of snowe. Now in ye bough an elfe there dwelte, An elfe of wondrous powere, That when ye chillye snowe didde pelte, With magic charm each flake didde melte, Didde melte into a flowere ; And Spring didde wake and marvelle how, How blossomed so ye leafless bough. Urutb. PERMIT me, madam, to declare That I never will compare Eyes of yours to Starlight cold, Or your locks to Sunlight's gold, Or your lips, I'd have you know, To the crimson Jacqueminot. Stuff like that's all very fine When you get so much a line ; Since I don't, I scorn to tell Flattering lies. I like too well Sun and Stars and Jacqueminot To flatter them, I'd have you know. 4 SCARECROW in a field of corn, r\ A thing of tatters all forlorn, Once felt the influence of Spring And fell in love a foolish thing, And most particularly so In his case for he loved a crow ! " Alack-a-day ! it's wrong I know, It's wrong for me to love a crow ; An all-wise man created me To scare the crows away," cried he ; "And though the music of her ' Caw' Thrills through and through this heart of straw ' ' My passion I must put away And do my duty come what may ! Yet oh, the cruelty of fate ! I fear she doth reciprocate My love, for oft at dusk I hear Her in my cornfield hovering near. A SCARECROW in a field of corn, /A A thing of tatters all forlorn, Once felt the influence of Spring And fell in love a foolish thing, And most particularly so In his case for he loved a crow ! 4 ' Alack-a-day ! it's wrong I know, It's wrong for me to love a crow ; An all-wise man created me To scare the crows away," cried he ; "And though the music of her 'Caw' Thrills through and through this heart of straw 4 ' My passion I must put away And do my duty come what may ! Yet oh, the cruelty of fate ! I fear she doth reciprocate My love, for oft at dusk I hear Her in my cornfield hovering near. "And once I dreamt Oh, vision blest, That she alighted on my breast. 'Tis very, very hard I know, But all- wise man decreed it so." He cried and flung his arm in air, The very picture of despair. Poor Scarecrow, if he could but know Even now his lady-love, the Crow, Sits in a branch, just out of sight, With her good husband, waiting night To pluck from out his sleeping breast His heart of straw to line her nest. Hbsence of THEY paused just at the crossing's brink. Said she, "We must turn back, I think. She eyes the mud. He sees her shrink, Yet does not falter, But recollects with fatal tact That cloak upon his arm in fact, Resolves to do the courtly act Of good Sir Walter. Why is it that she makes no sound, Staring aghast as on the ground He lays the cloak with bow profound ? Her utterance chokes her. She stands as petrified, until, Her voice regained, in accents chill She gasps, "/'// thank you if you will Pick up my cloak, sir ! " Ube IT was a tragic little mouse All bent on suicide Because another little mouse Refused to be his bride. " Alas ! " he squeaked, " I shall not wed! My heart and paw she spurns, I'll hie me to the cat instead, From whence no mouse returns ! " The playful cat met him half way, Said she, " I feel for you, You're dying for a mouse, you say, I'm dying for one, too ! " Now when Miss Mouse beheld his doom, Struck with remorse, she cried, ' ' In death we'll meet, O cat ! make room For one more mouse inside." The playful cat was charmed ; said she " I shall be, in a sense, Your pussy catafalque ! " Ah me ! It was her last offence ! Reader, take warning from this tale, And shun the punster's trick: Those mice, for fear lest cats might fail, Had eaten arsenic ! O. H. Ube princess anfc tbe Dragon. IN a very lonely tower, So the legend goes to tell, Pines a Princess in the power Of a dreadful Dragon's spell. There she sits in silent state, Always watching always dumb, While the Dragon at the gate Eats her suitors as they come ; King and Prince of every nation Poet, Page and Troubadour, Of whatever rank or station Eats them up and waits for more. Every Knight that hears the legend Thinks he'll see what he can do, Gives his sword a lovely edge, and Like the rest is eaten too ! All of which is very pretty And romantic, too, forsooth ; But, somehow, it seems a pity That they shouldn't know the truth. If they only knew that really There is no princess to gain That she's an invention merely Of the crafty Dragon's brain. Once it chanced he'd missed his dinner For perhaps a day or two ; Felt that he was getting thinner, Wondered what he'd better do. Then it was that he bethought him How in this romantic age (Reading fairy tales had taught him) Rescuing ladies was the rage. So a lonely tower he rented, For a trifling sum per year, And this thrilling tale invented, Which was carried far and near ; Far and near throughout the nations, And the Dragon ever since, Has relied for daily rations, On some jolly Knight or Prince. And while his romantic fiction To a chivalrous age appeals, It's a very safe prediction: He will never want for meals. NE day a Poppy just in play Said to a Butterfly " Go 'way " Go 'way you naughty thing Oh my! " But you're a bold bad butterfly!" Of course 'twas only said in fun, He was a perfect paragon In every way a spotless thing (Save for two spots upon his wing). But tho' his morals were the best, He could not understand a jest ; And somehow what the Poppy said Put ideas in his little head, And soon he really came to wish He were the least bit " devilish." He hung around the wildest flowers, And kept the most unseemly hours, With dragonflies and drunken bees, And learned to say " By Jove ! " with ease. Until his pious friends aghast Exclaimed " He's getting awf lly fastlj' He shunned the nicer flowers ; and threw Out hints of shady things he knew About the laurels, and one day He even went so far to say Something about the lilies sweet I could not possibly repeat ! He then affected manners rough And strained his voice to make it gruff, And scowled as who should say " Beware, " I am a dangerous character, "You'd best not fool with me, for I " I am a bold, bad butterfly." At length, it seems, from being told How bad he was, he grew so bold, This most obnoxious butterfly, That one day, swaggering 'round the sky He swaggered in the net of Mist er Jones, the entomologist. " It^seems a sin," said Mr. J., " This harmless little thing to slay," As, taking it from out his net, He pinned it to a board, and set Upon a card below the same, In letters large, its Latin name, Which is but I omit it lest Its family might be distressed, And stop the little sum per year They pay me not to print it here. Sonnet. TO THE "WOLF AT THE DOOR." By a Hungry Poet. OWolf, I do not dread thee as of yore, Time was when I would tremble in my shoes At sight of thee when lo ! my pity'ng Muse Brought me wherewith to drive thee from the door. And since at last, O Wolf, my waning store Has lured thee back, she will not now refuse My invocation. So I cannot choose But cry, " Help! Wolf!" that she may come once more. Mine is a Muse that listens with disdain To any call save that of appetite ; And till thou earnest all my prayers were vain, For while my purse was full, my brain was light. Therefore, O Wolf, I welcome thee again To speed the Muse that I may dine to-night. ZTbe fugitive WHEN scribbling late one night I happened to alight On the happiest thought I'd thought For many a year. I hailed it with delight, But ere I'd time to write My pencil had contrived To disappear. Where could the thing have gone ? I searched and searched upon The table, and beneath it And behind it. I pushed my books about, Turned my pockets inside out, But the more I looked The more I couldn't find it! "This will not do," I said, ' ' I must not lose my head ! " So I went and tore the cushions From my chair, Shook all my rugs and mats, And shoes and coats and hats. And crawled beneath the Sofa in despair ! Then I searched and searched again On the table, but in vain, And I fussed and fumed And felt about the floor. And I rose up in my wroth, And I shook the tablecloth, And turned my pockets Inside out once more ! Then I said, " I must keep cool ! So I took my two-foot rule And I poked among the Ashes in the grate. And I paced my room in rage, Like a wild beast in a cage, In a furious, frightful, frantic Frenzied state ! At last, upon my soul, I lost my self-control And indulged in language Quite unfit to hear ; Till out of breath I gasped And clutched my head and grasped That pencil calmly resting on My ear ! Yes, I found that pencil stub ! But my thought Aye, there's the rub! In vain I try to call it Back again. It has fled beyond recall, And what is worst of all 'Twill turn up in some Other fellow's brain ! So I denounce forthwith Any future Jones or Smith Who thinks my thought a Plagiarist of the worst. I shall know my thought again When I hear it, and it's plain It must be mine because / thought it first! ZTbe Xegenfc of tbe ONCE a Tiger for a freak, Fell in love With a Lily, pure and meek, And as timid, white and weak As a dove. Yet withal a wee bit chilly, Just enough the Tiger's silly Pride to pique. By and by the Lily cold, Felt the charm ; Learned, tho' dreadful to behold, That the Tiger, fierce and bold, Meant no harm. And she smiled upon him shyly, Till at length the Tiger wily, Was consoled. So in time the Beauty grew To adore The Royal Beast who came to woo, Loved him for his golden hue For his roar ; All for him with blushes burning, To a Tiger-lily turning, Golden too. But alas, the luckless Lily Loved in vain ; For a painted daffodilly Came between them, and the Lily, Pale with pain, In a dark pool, drooped and pining, Drowned herself, and rose a shining Water-lily. H Cbilb's ILesson. Chil-dren see the lit-tle Boy Play-ing with the lit-tle Toy Chil-dren tell me if you can When the lit-tle game be-gan Tell me if the Boy should stop What would hap-pen to the Top?