PS 3501 D24 B8 1914 LIBRARY UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA SAN DUEGO PS BY AND LARGE BOOKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR xxx Tobogganing on Parnassus In Other Words BY AND LARGE BY FRANKLIN P. ADAMS GARDEN CITY NEW YORK DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY 1914 Copyright, 1914, by DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign languages, including the Scandinavian Copyright, 1914, by THE TRIBUNE ASSOCIATION Copyright, 1910, 1911, 1912, 1913,6? THE MAIL & EXPRESS COMPANY Copyright, 1912, 1913, by THE METROPOLITAN MAGAZINE COMPANY Copyright, 1908, by THE CURTIS PUBLISHING COMPANY Q. H. F.'S ADDRESS TO HIS BOOK Horace: Book I, EpUtola 20. "yertumnum Janumque, liber, spectare videris " Ho, ambitious little book! Wan and wistful is your look, Think you that a lyricist E'er could lead The Bookman's list? Get you gone, and, booklet, learn, Once away there's no return. Verses fashioned for a colyum, Who told you you were a volume? How you will be torn and squeezed, When the reader is appeased! Moths and bookworms will devour All those lines of light and power! Should arise one cak Whether I am grave or gay, Say that be who runs this Steeple Came from free and honest people. Tell him I am short and stout, Nor recluse nor gadabout; Tell him that I have, alack! Silver Threads among the Black. Tell him, though my temper's warm, Quickly vanishes my storm, And my years THAT / remember Five-and-forty next December! CONTENTS PAGE Q.H.F.'s Address to His Book .... v Business of Bowing 3 The Reconciliation 5 Q. H. F. Moralizes on the Springtide . . 8 Maecenas Is Invited to Have a Drink . . 10 Pyrrha the Flirtatious 1 1 Q.H.F. Swears Off 12 Horace to Chloe 13 The Stalling of Q.H.F 14 The Dauntless Bard 16 The Suburban Craze in Rome .... 18 The Propertian Fancy 19 A Tip to Ponticus 20 A Warning to Bassus 22 The Pifflosophy of Anacreon 24 O, I Went Down to the River Bank! ... 25 A Dream of Fair Cooks 27 "If" 35 Culinary Imperfections 38 Contents PAGE In a Manner of Writing 40 Ezra Pound's or Amy Lowell's . . 40 James Whitcomb Riley's . ... 40 Robert W. Service's 41 The Ball Game 43 1. By Our Own John Masefield ... 43 II. By Our Own Ring W. Lardner . . 47 III. By Our Own William Wordsworth . 50 IV. By Our Own William De Morgan . 51 Basebalderdash 61 To Julia Legion 63 A Warning to Myrtilla 64 Pavlowa 65 To Myrtilla 67 Yet the Sempiternal Folly Is Hers ... 68 To the Present Gibson Girl 69 Ballade of Girls Who Attend the Princeton- Yale and Yale-Harvard Football Games . 70 To the Redfern Corset Lady 72 The Tired Business Man's Song .... 73 The Cabaret Bards 76 The "Punch" 81 The Neo-Neoism 82 To the Neo-Pseudoists 84 One Never Knows 85 Contents PAGE The Exiles 87 A Philippic 89 No Offence, Sir 90 Why the Socialist Party Is Growing . . . 92 The Ballad of the Two Lame Men . . . 93 The Ballad of the Sorrowfull Bride ... 95 Cui Culpa? 98 Monody on the Astor House 100 Bermuda . 102 Mates for the Mateless 104 "In Such A Night 106 Clothes, the Birth Rate, Etc 107 The Downward Course 109 Lines Written after Re-Reading Gray's "Elegy Written in a Country Church yard" and Realizing that Eight Years Were Given to Its Composition . . . in On Emulation 113 Bright Saffron Sheets 114 Do You Know? 115 W. S. 1564-1914 117 Composed in the Composing Room . . . 119 Eugenic Love Lyrics 1 20 Speaking of Robert Burns 122 The Battle of Swatterloo 123 Contents PAGE Speaking of Suffrage 124 The Optative Mood 125 Lines on Blushing for "Punch" . . . . 127 To Those Concerned 129 " I Remember, I Remember" 130 The Landing of the New Haven Fathers on New England and Environs . . . . 132 With Genuflexions 134 O Ever Thus! 135 On the Usufruct of Worrying 137 To the Just Graduated 138 On Morningside Heights 139 Ballade of a Jaded Imagination . . . . 140 As to an Urban Summer .'.... 142 A Lexicographer's Love-Poem . . . . 144 The Wet Blanket Legion 146 The Monument of Q. Horatius Flaccus . . 148 BY AND LARGE BY AND LARGE BUSINESS OF BOWING Horace: Book I, Ode 32. AD LYRAM " Poscimur. Si quid vacui sub umbra " Help me, my lute, if we have made, What time I twanged thee in the shade, A song to make the people cry, Like "When the Swallows Homeward Fly" Or Mr. Schubert's serenade If, I repeat, we've ever played Some song for which the public paid, Yet said: "This Horace is some guy" Help me, my lute! 3 By and Large Thine erstwhile owner, unafraid, Sang Love and Wine . . . If we invade What themes soever, thou and I, Down here on Nassau Street, N. Y., I'll reckon on thy well-known aid . . . Help me, my lute! THE RECONCILIATION Horace: Book III, Ode 9. " Donee eram gratus tibi " HORACE Lyddy, am I right or wrong? Was I there? Did I belong? Did you not you know you did Call me once the Headline Kid? I had everybody stopped; Persian potentates I topped; Dun and Bradstreet, if you'd love me, Wouldn't rate a king above me. LYDIA Friend Horatius, all that you Say is absolutely true. I was happy as a queen When oh, you know what I mean. 5 By and Large When you gave no Chloe praise, Them, ah, them was happy days! When you used to coax and con me Ilia's self had nothing on me. HORACE Thracian Chloe she's a bear Has Q. H. up in the air; Her I lamp without fatigue; Chloe leads the Flaccus League. Listen: I'm a selfish guy, But I'd really love to die If I thought she'd get a giggle At my mortuary wriggle. LYDIA Speaking, as you often do, Of affection, I'm there, too. Who is my idea of joy? Calais and quantus boy. Why, if I believed that he Could elicit any glee From the sentence Lydia non est, I'd bichloride. I would, honest. 6 The Reconciliation HORACE Lyddy, listen, get me right: Do you think perhaps we might Sort of start it up again As 'twas in the glorious When? If I tell this Chloe that I am going to leave her, flat, Do you think that you would let me Write to you, and? well, you get me. LYDIA Listen, Horace, though you be Roaring as the raging sea Though he be a Broadway sign, I'm for you Q. H. for mine. Whether you're the ocean's roar, Angry and ferocious; or Lighter than a cork, and giddy, I am yours Sincerely, LYDDY Q. H. F. MORALIZES ON THE SPRINGTIDE AD SEXTIUM Horace: Book I, Ode 4. "Solvitur acris Hems grata vice veris et Favoni " The backbone of winter is broken ; The river is running with shad; The phrases of baseball are spoken In pictures by Briggs or by Tad. The cattle come out of the stable; The nymphs do the dip and the swing; The rhubarb appears on the table; In short, it is spring. In grottoes excessively shady We'll offer a lamb or a kid To Pan ; and to Rosie or Sadie A nellygunt two-dollar lid. But pipe to the words of the poet : You'll die, be you beggar or king. You simply can't beat it, although it Appears to be spring. 8 Q. H. F. Moralises on the Springtide Though fortune may pamper and pet you Though you be bewreathed and be- pearled, The jolly old Reaper will get you; You ain't got a chance in the world. No Lycidas, no dice I give warning In Pluto's domain not a thing. But still we are living this morning, And gosh! it is Spring! MAECENAS IS INVITED TO HAVE A DRINK Horace: Book I, Ode 20. "Vile potabis modicis Sabinum " Maecenas, let us have a drink; I have a lot of Sabine ink, Wine of a cheap domestic sort, At four denarii the quart. I brewed the wine myself the day The cries of "Prosit!" and "Hooray!" For you, from all the Roman pop., Echoed from stream to mountain-top. Buy Caecuban, if so you will, Or drink from the Calenian still, Falernian, Formian at your home But not at his who writes this pome. 10 PYRRHA THE FLIRTATIOUS Horace: Book I, Ode 5. " Quis multa gracilis te puer in rosa " AD PYRRHAM Who is the arrowcollar kid You're playing in the grot with? For whom the zippy Leghorn lid? Whom do you do the trot with? Ha ! Get me giggling, while I think How smooth appears the ocean To him, the unsuspecting gink But oh! that wavy motion! I weep for them that are not joe, That think you sweet and clever. Spear it from one who's in the know: I'm off your lay forever. ii Q. H. F. SWEARS OFF Horace: Book III, Ode 26. " Vixi puellis nuper idoneus " Till recently I used to call On any frail who would receive me. I frivoled with them one and all I was some fusser, too, believe me. But now to Venus I shall give My xylophone and tennis racquet. For me no longer while I live, The roles of Faversham and Hackett. However, Venus, O thou queen, Take up thy lash or stick or Bowie. And let it fall upon the bean Of naughty, haughty, beauty Chloe. 12 HORACE TO CHLOE Book I, Ode 23. " Vitus binnuleo me similis, Cbloe " Dear Chloe, why so frightened by The harmless presence of Horatius? I'm not a bear that wants to scare Don't be fugacious. Yet like a fawn you leave the lawn When I approach. If you would let me, I'd say that you were twenty-two . . . There, do you get me? THE STALLING OF Q. H. F. Horace: Epode XIV. " Mollis inertia cur tantam dijjuderit imis " Maecenas, you appal me With your demand for rhyme, Because the names you call me! My stuff's not done on time! You think I'm steeped in slumber And that you have my number. Oh, well, you've got to know it, You ask me why I shirk; It's Love that keeps this poet From getting down to work; It's Cupid that's upset me; It's well, I guess you get me. 14 Tbe Stalling of Q. H. F. How fain was to philander Anacreon the great ! And far from me to slander - You like to keep a date. So, while I'm thrall to Phryne, My pomes continue tiny. 15 THE DAUNTLESS BARD Horace: Book I, Ode 22. " Integer vita, scelerisque purus " O Fuscus, if your heart be true, If you be but a righteous liver, No Moorish bow need bother you, Nor arrows from a foeman's quiver. Duluth, Winona, Kankakee, South Framingham and points adjacent It matters not where you may be, If but your conscience be complacent. Why, once when I was singing of My Lalage need I repeat it? A wolf that heard my song of love Gave me a look and straightway beat it. .6 The Dauntless Bard Put me where it is cold or hot. Where water's ice, or where it's b'iling, I'll sing who likes my stuff or not My Lalage so sweetly smiling. THE SUBURBAN CRAZE IN ROME Catullus: Ode 26. Your bungalow, my Furius, is not up against the wind East, west or north or even south in fact, not any kind; But up against a cyclone that has emptied all your purses A mortgage of a trifle over fifteen thou. sesterces. .8 THE PROPERTIAN FANCY AD TULLUM Propertius: Book I, Elegy 14. " Tu licet abjectus Tibernia molliter undo. " Though you recline on the banks of the Tiber, Drinking some excellent dope; Though you're considerable Lesbian imbiber, Would I exchange with you? . .Nope. Wine and the wealth of a teacher of dancing, Loveless, were naught but a curse. Cynthia for me, with her vernal romancing Which I can put into verse. A TIP TO PONTICUS Proper tius: Elegy 7. " Dunt tibi Cadmeae dicuntur, Pontice, Thebce " What time thou singest martial airs As well as Homer ever did O Ponticus, I scorn to kid ! I sing about some fluff. Some Fluff is right. I sing her praise. Thus do I spend my whole career; That is my total cause for cheer, Mine only claim to bays. Let luckless lovers note the same, And let them learn what I have learned; For children that have once been burned May shun the flame. 20 A Tip to Ponticus Shouldst thou be wishful to create The softer, sweeter songs of Love, And cease to sing of sword and glove, Twill be too late. Then shalt thou marvel, full of ruth, How fine have been my songs, how great ! Beware of love that cometh late! Ain't it the truth? 21 A WARNING TO BASSUS Propertius: Book I, Ode 5. " Quid mibi tarn multas laudando. Basse, puellas. Mutatum domino, cogis abire meal " Why, Bassus, do you tell me of A million maids I cry "Pooh! Pooh!" to? Think you that I shall ever love Any but her I now am true to? O why not suffer me to slave As thrall to one who understands me, From now until the very grave, No matter what the future hands me? Antiope was quelque queen, Hermione was passing pretty; But none was 1-2-17 With Cynthia, heroine of this ditty. A Warning to Bassus Yet pulchritude is not her all; Her color and her grace are oh, what The French, who phrase it fitly, call Elusively her I-don't-know-what. The more you try to have it cease, The more you seek our love to sever, By so much more will it increase, For we have vowed to never-never. And when my Cynthia comes to hear Of how you sought to dim her glamour, She'll smite you with her lingual spear And hit you with her verbal hammer. For loss of love of such a love As mine for her, though I do say so Cannot be borne . . . O ye above, I pray that she may ever stay so! THE PIFFLOSOPHY OF ANACREON Fill, oh, fill the punch tureen; Twine the roses round my bean ! Flowers are fair and wine is gay Let us be as bright as they! Garlanded we well may frown At old Gyges' costly crown. Ours the present; why beware Of the future's woe and care? Ours the present; treat it well Lest we break the happy spell. Though to-morrow bring the ache, We should fret and lie awake ! O, I WENT DOWN TO THE RIVER BANK! O, I went down to the river bank Last night, When a million stars were bright And you in the long grass lay. O, the wind blew over the river bank Last night, And the touch of your lips was light As we in the warm grass lay. O, I came up from the river bank Alone, While the weary wind made moan, And the dawn on the crushed grass lay. RUTH THOMAS PICKERING, Vassar, '14, in Vassar Miscellany for February, 1914. TO RUTH O, I read all of your poem, Ruth, Last night, And I said "To the colyum's height With that there little lay." 25 By and Large O, I gave some thought to your poem, Ruth, Last night, And I felt that I ought to write The lady who wrote that lay. O, I am keen for your lyric, Ruth. It smokes! But how did it hit your folks When they read their daughter's lay? A DREAM OF FAIR COOKS PROLOGUE Years, years agone, or ever I had come To Social Problems and the World's Ad vance ; Or that Reform and Sin had made medumb To good o. f. Romance; While still I fell for Dickens and for Scott, While A. B. Frost was what I knew of Art, When Love in short, before I knew a lot Of everything, in part Back in those days of measles and of croups If you insist, in Eighteen Ninety Three Tennyson's Poems and the Rogers Groups Were everything to me. 27 By and Large And but on yesternight again I read, Browsing among my dust-encrusted books, A Dream of Women Fair; whereat I said: "A Dream ha ! of Fair Cooks ! " And so, as Browning'd say, I did 'gin write A lyric sequence to our many maids Of all work from the sturdy to the slight, Of varied shapes and shades. I GRETCHEN O blonde and bland Bavarian, No longer in the flat Of this here proletarian Dost thou hang up thy hat. Allowing what I could for it That awful hat I think That hanging was too good for it A mass of green and pink! 28 A Dream of Fair Cooks No longer dost thou stay with us, No longer rise at eight. Meseems thou got'st too gay with us, Wherefore thou got'st the gate. I trust thy prodigality With butter, eggs, and cream Will carry no penality Under thy new regime. Farewell! I cannot jest at thee, I can do naught but hurl My wishes all the best at thee, Farewell, poor little girl ! II THE FINN mendacious maid and shameless, Vowed to come a week ago, 1 must lyricize you nameless, For your name I do not know. 20 By and Large Guileless, I have no suspicion Some one else might be a crook; You Accepted that Position, And I said: "We have a cook." When, a Danish damsel scorning, On yourself we did decide, And you said: "On Monday morning," Little did I think you lied. Nine o'clock ten and eleven - At the memory reason spins! You came not ... I cried to Heaven: "Vent my fury on the Finns!" Wrathful penned I this indenture, Frenzied wrote this angry screed At your perfidy. I'll venture Eight to five you cannot read. Ill MARTHA O Martha, mirthful I and gay, No longer am I thrall to sorrow, 30 A Dream of Fair Cooks For, Martha, thou art here to-day And gone to-morrow. Gone to another, where thy lot, I trust, I pray, may be less rotten. Thou'rt nearly gone, but, Martha, not, Not quite forgotten. Four weeks thou tarried'st in our midst Tarried'st is right of cooks the slowest. \ sing, in view of all thou didst, What time thou goest. Thou couldst not cook, thou couldst not wait On table oh, the things thou couldst not ! The sentences I begged to state Thou understood'st not. "Farewell" I quote Lord Byron's song " Farewell " and if the fates demand it Shall be forever, I'll be strong And try to stand it. 3 By and Large IV LENA. REEL NO. I. I pray that I am not egregiously gross; I hope I shall always be able To keep from becoming unduly verbose Concerning the joys of the table. What time that Parnassus may be my address, And Pierian springs I may drink of, I hope none will say, as he reads: "Well, I guess Provisions is all he can think of." Yet Food hath its place and its place is the home Sound, psalter! and sound, concertina! For I am about to deliver a pome, The theme of the same being Lena. 32 A Dream of Fair Cooks The coffee she brews ! and the eggs that she boils! Her soups and her French fried potatoes! The pies that she bakes and the steaks that she broils! And oh ! how she fixes tomatoes ! She's pleasant to talk to and pleasant to see (Poor Martha! her gloom was atrocious! Poor Gretchen! she thought I was Simon Legree, While truly I'm far from ferocious). Lena, sincerely I put in my song The whole of my earnest endeavor. 1 can't, I am sure, make it any too strong: I hope you'll stay with us forever. LENA. REEL NO. 2. I thought her a wonder, a treasure, a pearl, And time and again I confessed it; The praise and the presents I gave to that girl! And now she has gone . . . You have guessed it. 33 By and Large Gone . . . gone . . . and my life is a terrible thing; I'm dull and morose and I mutter. I haven't been gay since the day she took wing And two cakes of soap and some butter. She used to have Thursdays and Saturdays out, Each evening, did she demand it; And now that she's faded, it fills me with doubt; It beats me; I can't understand it. I never could question the motives that gov- Ern most of a lady's decisions. Perhaps it was right to dissemble her love, But why did she swipe the provisions? Ah, baffling the way of a man with a maid - It raises particular hob. But where is the pen that has ever portrayed The way of a maid with a job? 34 "IF" Addressed, with obeisances to Joseph R. Kipling, the well-known English author, to some young woman who desires Economic Independence If you can keep your job when all about you Are leaving theirs for something more a week ; If you can smile when some one ought to clout you, And yet refrain to giggle like a geek: If you can wait that is, can wait on table, And not insult the hostess or the guest; If you can pass the cream; if you are able To wear a solemn look if I should jest; If you can cook and not make food your master; If you can read and not make Hearst your aim: If you can bake a crust that isn't plaster; 35 By and Large If you can use the gas, nor waste the flame; If you can take a message telephonic, And tell me who she was and what she said; If you are less loquacious than laconic, And tuck the covers tightly in the bed; If you can wash my socks without their shrinking; If you can iron kerchiefs without starch; If you have friends who do not care for drinking; (Alas! the time our Gretchen had last ' March!) If you can rise at seven in the morning; If you will now and then turn off the light; If you can smother every look of scorning My "Seven extra places, please, to-night"; If you can Tidy Up, nor lose my papers; If English be akin to what you talk; 36 If you can cook sans onions, sage, or capers; If you don't clatter-clatter when you walk; If you can boil an egg for but a minute, Instead of as is usual two or three, Yours is the flat and everything that's in it, And which is more you'll get a job with me! 37 CULINARY IMPERFECTIONS Full many a glorious cook we've had, From Clara to the current queen; And some were good and some were bad, And some were only just between. Their minor faults I can forgive; This is what makes me cross and crusty: Why, why no matter where I live - Why is the spinach always dusty? We've had 'em that could broil a steak, We've had 'em that could stew or fry; Our Olive, once a week, can bake A far from tasteless lemon pie. Our Lena oh, her splendid soup! Our Margaret oh, her brilliant scrapple! But there is not in all the group A single one can core an apple. 38 Culinary Imperfections Our Gretchen had an art with fish, Our Anne with prunes and vermicelli, Our Emma's cakes were all you'd wish, Our Jennie was a bear with jelly; Yet, out of all the gifted crew, From Jane the Curse to Grace the Blessing, There was not one but she put too Much vinegar in the salad dressing. 39 IN A MANNER OF WRITING Horace: Book I, Ode 38. EZRA POUND'S OR AMY LOWELL'S "Persicos odi, puer, apparatus " The Persian pompadours I hate, O boy! Head-wreaths, with linden twined Displease me. Seek not the rose's dwelling place, But myrtle, if 1 had my choice, for me. For you as well, you a servitor. And for me, as under this lovely vine I become, as Jack London says, Jingled. JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY'S I don't keer fer Perzhunn ties an' clo'es 'at's wore by kings; I wunt shoes f'm Terry Hut, an' Injunopplis things. 40 In a Manner of Writing Don't wunt no criss-anthey-ums 'at grows in any store, Wunt a little daisy ist like Ou-er Annie wore. Noon-time an' June-time beneath a nellum tree Here in Injeanny is the Place Per Me! ROBERT w. SERVICE'S I've worked like the deuce and sweated profuse, till my brain and blood oozed forth, And hoi polloi grow sick with joy at my rhymes of the ribald North; I sing my song and they call it strong and virile and vivid and bright; If Horace were here don't spill the beer! I'd show him the way to write! Believe me, kid, whether wop or yid, I hate a gazabe with lugs; These velvety hats they drive me bats, and I think I am going bugs. 41 By and Large The plainest caps for a couple of yaps and yeggs like you and me - A waiter you, and me with a stew in the shade of a Dago tree. I've soused like sin with a jigger of gin where the veins of the Yukon flow, I've loved and lost and damned the cost in the cities of sleet and snow; I was never afraid to call a spade a murder ous, hellish plow - If Horace to-day would follow my way God! but I'd show him how! THE BALL GAME I BY OUR OWN JOHN MASEFIELD With other men and wastrel-hounds I walked into the Polo Grounds, And, cursing hard at the expense, I bought a seat for fifty cents. By cripes, I thought, do human creatures Sit out here in the bloody bleachers? I heard them argue and exclaim An hour or so before the game: " Brooklyn's some team." "Some team is right." "You said a face full." "Aw, good night!" 43 By and Large "They got no chance. See Matty limp!" " That's Tes-er-eau!" "Shut up, you simp!" "The Gi'nts 'a' got the pennant sewed." "Go wan, these early games is throwed!" And then I heard the umpire say: "Lays'gem' thuh battrees fer to-day Per Brooklyn, Roolback an' McCarty; Fer Noo York Mathewson an' Meyers." Long was the cheering, loud and hearty, From these encouragers and guyers. The game: Jack Dalton died at first; I writhed in horror and I cursed; My thoughts went eddying in a circle At Cutshaw's out, Matty to Merkle; Then Daubert beat an infield hit My crimson-flowing lips I bit - But Wheat, Zack Wheat, lifted to Burns And soured all my hoping yearns. Bob Bescher grounded out to first ; By crimes, the bleachers roared and cursed. "Safe!" 44 The Ball Game "He was not!" "He was!" "Was NOT!" "He WAS!" "Yerliar!" "Can that rot!" George Burns went out, and so did Flet cher. "Some team, them boys!" "Some team, you betcher!" So till the fourth, when Cutshaw singled: Oh, strike me blind, but how I tingled! Then Daubert cracked one to the fence And Cutshaw scored, and Jake. Immense! Wheat tripled; Carlyle Smith fouled out, But Stengel scored Wheat with a clout. Egan went out, McCarty, too But three big runs across hurroo! Quiet until the middle inning, When trouble started in beginning: Doyle tripled, Merkle fanned, and Snow Waited for four and walked and Oh! 45 By and Large Stock singled, Doyle ran fast and scored, And then a brimstone thing Oh Lord!- They ran down Snodgrass close to third, And then the hellish thing occurred: McCarty tried for Stock, who'd stole To third. He threw. There was a hole. The ball went out to deep left field. Three runs that inning's fruity yield. And in the sixth they got another, And Brooklyn got no more Oh, mother! "Some Matty, eh? He's on the job." "He'd oughta lost, the lucky slob!" " Marquard's their ace." "He's through, the Rube." "He ain't!" "He is!" "Shut up, you boob!" I left those loud, loquacious louts, Their tenuous talk of ins and outs; Their footless talk of bears and terrors; Their silly talk of hits and errors. What do they know, I asked, of Sport? 4 6 The Ball Game They haven't the slightest feeling for't. They talk and yell and swear and shout, But they don't know what Sport's about. What is't? I said. By cripes, I'll show 'em! So I went downtown and pulled this poem. II BY OUR OWN RING W. LARDNER New York City, N. Y., May 26. FRIEND AL: Probly it come like a supprise when you seen I dident pitch Tuesday's game or Monday's. Well Al I was supprised a little myself and you could of knocked me down with a croshayed necktie when Cal says he is going to pitch Russell this after noon. 1 was pretty mad and I says Oh are you and he didn't even answer. I guess he had enough in St. Louis the day Evans called a balk on me the big stiff. Cal says You must have some ball games in the bank the way you toss them away you big bone you ingorant busher. He says you aint a pitcher youre a nuisance. He says Get out of that 47 By and Large game. He says if you had a little more sense youd be ^ witted. Them managers cant bluff me. I come back at him. I says Is that so. You know me Al. Well Al it was like that here in N. Y. Cal dident say a word and he pitched Russell and they tyed it up on him one a peace in the 6th in'g and then Cal took Russell out and put in Benz and in the Qth Bodie got a lucky one off of Caldwell that went in the stands a homer so we won but it wasnt Benz's fault. The lucky stiff. After the game I says to Irving Vaughan one of the Ch'go reporters I think Cal done wrong not to pitch me to-day or yesterday dont you. I says Your honest opinion no bunk now I says. He says He certainly should of pitched you Jack. He says This way he only won two out of the two games and if he had of pitched you he might of won three or seven out of the two. Them reporters give me a pain Al. If they had to play base ball for a living I bet they would starve to deth. 48 The Ball Game Coming out of the grounds I seen Chance the Highlanders m'n'g'r. I says Good even ing Mr. Chance you would have a swell team if they only could hit that old ball. He says Yes and if beefsteak dident cost so much it might be cheaper. I guess he dident under stand what he said. You know he is a little deef Al. We are stopping at Bretton Hall Al and it sure is some hotel. There is a little girl at the news-stand who is pretty fond of me Al. She is some looker O. K. She says I bet youre a ballplayer all right and I says yes how did you know and she says on account of the way you have got your neck shaved in the back. Gee Al I knew it looked nice but I dident think anybody would notice it. These N. Y. dames are pretty keen Al. In the elevator as I was going to the room Kid Gleason comes in. Well he says I hope you will like it in Mobile. I says I aint going to Mobile and he says the evening papers is full of it. So I went back and bought a paper and there wasent nothing about it at 49 By and Large all. Al he was kidding me and they charged me 2C for a ic paper too. No more at present from Your old pal JACK. 1 met a little Gotham girl Upon the city street; She wore a merry fish-hook curl, And all her ways were sweet. She said that she would like to go The baseball game to see, But rain prevented it, and, oh, The difference to me! The lily on its waving stem, The roses in the store - A summer shower 'twas to them, And it was nothing more. 50 The Ball Game Oh, ever thus from childhood's hour I've seen my hopes decay. How often hath a summer shower Washed all my life away! IV BY OUR OWN WILLIAM DE MORGAN CHAPTER I OF BELLAREATON'S NAME. HOW IT WASN'T REALLY BELLAREATON. BECAUSE PRU DENCE CROSBY CALLED HER THAT, NINE TEEN YEARS AGO. JUNE IN GRAMERCY PARK. JUNE 24, 1914, TO BE ACCURATE. Of course, if you had looked at Bella rea- ton's visiting cards, which were engraved in the neatest of Caslon caps and small caps, and not in the Tiffany text which was affected by the best and assistant-best and second- vice-best people twenty years ago ebeu fugaces! you would have known that Bella- reaton's name was not Bellareaton at all. 5 By and Large You would have known that it was ISABELLA EATON, 291 GRAMERCY PARK. You would not have known, though the reading of any of the writer's previous publications might have given you a chart or diagram you could have got ahead pretty far with, so you might have guessed, that when Isabella Eaton was a baby, and, indeed, up to the time when the brook and river, as Mr. Longfellow and his verses were deemed excellent in your mother's day, delightful young reader said, meet that is, in preadolescent days, Miss Prudence Crosby, of Augusta, Maine, was Isabella's nurse and guardian right-guar dian, James Eaton, who used to be Old Beef Eaton of Yale, called her. Prudence's pro- nunciatory proclivities the alliteration is accidental and the story would gain nothing by stopping to change it now included vanillaricecream, Pennsylvaniaravenue and she sawr a nanimal yestiddy. And, obvi ously, Isabellareaton. It was Isabella at first, then Bella. But when the extremely young Miss Eaton appeared to be becoming overde- 52 The Ball Game sirous for nuzzer piece o* tandy, which she had had enough of already and what was children a-comin' to, Prudence, terrifying and austere, would cry a warning " Bellareaton, you've had more than enough already. Bellar^ton!" May had come and gone, as Mays in Gramercy Park had been doing for the twenty-four years of Bellareaton's life. It was June. June twen further vagueness and attempt at concealment were futile ty-fourth, Nineteen Fourteen. It was one- fifteen of that afternoon, a Wednesday. The present chronicler might increase his reputa tion for an unusual ability to remember dates and figures, but there is no merit accruing in this instance. He has looked it up in a calendar and finds that June 24, 1914, fell on a Wednesday. And calendars never are wrong, save artistically. They always are that. 53 By and Large CHAPTER II HOW YOUNG PHYSICIANS DO NOT MAKE MUCH MONEY. A WAITING PHYSICIAN. IF DOC TORS ONLY MIGHT ADVERTISE.' WHY SHOULDN'T THEY? BECAUSE THINGS ARE WRONG. BUT HOW CAN IT BE HELPED? Unless your reverence for the mating of words is stronger than the writer's, you would not have called John Howard Ripley, M. D., as his bills, which so few, alas! were sent out of, and solely because there were so few to send out, a struggling physician. At any rate, his struggling was not visible. He was, you might say, assuming again your willingness to divorce word-pairs whose dia mond-wedding anniversaries have been cele brated, a waiting physician. One who is by way of being in the cloak-and-suit line, say, may struggle; a subway guard may struggle; a janitor of an apartment-house may struggle. To see the last, if we may drop the story for a moment, we should be willing to walk 54 The Ball Game ten miles on a cold night, and pay a good round admittance-fee. Provided, of course, that his struggling were in vain. You would we are going to at any rate call Dr. Ripley a waiting physician. An excellent physician he was, and they could tell you at Vienna, in the university, of the amazing knowledge of surgery this young American had attained. But when you take an apartment in East Fifty-sixth Street or anywhere, almost you simply cannot stand in front of the building, collect a crowd, and say: "Ladies and gentlemen, I am about to open an office here. Though I am unknown to all of you, I can refer you to the faculty of the University of Vienna, where I took exceptional honors in surgery and orthopraxy. I am conscientious and hon orable, my skill and judgment are more than ordinary, and I deserve your trade." Yet this would have been utterly true. A theatre may nay, dozens do vaunt that it has the Best Show in Town, and a department store vow, in print, that nowhere 55 By and Large else is it possible to obtain such colossal values for such absurdly low prices. Yet Dr. Ripley's speech, could he but have made it, would have been more truthful and, we believe, more modest. Our standards are in error. And jesting Pilate's query remains unanswered. CHAPTER III HOW IT WAS STILL JUNE 24, 1914. OF BENNIE MURPHY AND ANOTHER BOY WHOSE NAME DOESN'T MATTER. THE ACCIDENT. THE RECOVERY. HOW THREE HAPPY PEOPLE WENT TO A BASEBALL GAME. Although a whole chapter has intervened, no time whatever has elapsed since it was one-fifteen of a Wednesday afternoon, June 24, 1914. Into each novel some interpola tions must fall, some chapters must be dark and dreary. The writer is not sure whether that is original with him or is a quotation from a review of one of his books. At any rate he does not read the reviews. He is not 56 The Ball Game one of those mendacious authors who never look at reviews and don't care what they say anyhow and the critics never read the books and the papers have a grudge against them. No, the writer reads all the reviews. He is an incorrigible optimist. He hopes some day to read a good one. On this June afternoon on which, as Miss Laura Jean Libbey used to say, our story opens on, a young boy, Bennie Murphy ycleped and Moiphy called, actilis, \ 3, clean limbed, as Mr. Chambers would say, and dirty-handed and faced, as the worship of truth compels us to, was playing catch with another boy, in the street. The other boy does not enter into the story, save objectively, and his name and attributes do not matter. Giving him a name would only serve to con fuse the reader. It would violate the princi ple of Economy of Attention. Besides, a careful writer may spend hours thinking up a name for an inconsequential character, when any name might have done. So a story teller will hesitate, sometimes, as to whether 57 By and Large his child made the remark on Tuesday or on Wednesday, when you are perishing to have the story over with, so that you can get away, or tell him about your own remarkable child's epigram of last Monday or was it Friday morning? Bennie and the boy were playing catch, then, and Bennie was just running to the side of the street to catch the ball, which the boy whose name does not matter had thrown high and the wind had deflected, when an automobile-truck bore down upon him. The wheels seemed to pass over his left foot only. He lay in the street, very white, very lifeless- looking. The first man who rushed up was Dr. Ripley. In a thousand cases, a doctor would be the tenth or the sixty-third to arrive. But there has to be a first, and this time it was the doctor. The story cannot play with facts, even to serve a purpose. Also, the boy whose name doesn't matter ran away. His name matters less than ever now. The second person to appear was a po- 58 Tie Ball Game liceman, who took the truckman's name and the truck's number. Clearly, though, it wasn't his fault, 'cause the kid run right plum into it and you couldn't stop it then, bein' too late, an' kids oughta keep off o' the streets an' it wasn't his fault. The eleventh person to arrive was Bellareaton, the accident having occurred almost in front of her house. "Bring the little chap in here," she said. She was pale, but excitedly beautiful. "Give us a hand, here," this from the doctor. So Bennie was carried into 291 Gramercy Park and laid on a bed upstairs and he opened his eyes and saw Dr. Ripley and closed them again, and Dr. Ripley took his shoe and stock ing off and pressed the foot, ever so gently, and then took the knee and pressed that, and rubbed the calf and kneaded the instep. And Bellareaton looked on, wonderingly. All this, you must know, took more time than it takes to tell it. Most things do. And then Bennie opened his eyes and kept 59 By and Large them open. He did not say: "Where am I?" He said: "Did 'at stiff git away?" Meaning the driver. "He will be punished for his carelessness," replied Miss Eaton, academically. "Big stiff!" said Bennie, mercilessly. "Forget him," said Bellareaton. "You're not hurt a bit. You can go home in a few minutes. Is there anything you'd like? You may have anything you like this after noon, because you were nearly killed, but weren't. Ice cream or - "Anything a 'tall?" Bennie asked. "Anything." "Gimme a ticket to the ballgame. Th' Yanks is back an' I wanna see them poor boobs play." Dr. Ripley looked at Bellareaton. He took her hand and held it, pressingly. "We'll take him to the game," he said. 60 BASEBALDERDASH "Think that the Gi'nts'll repeat?" "Class is the word, bo; you said it." "Well, they got Pittsburgh to beat " "Wagner's a wolf give him credit." "Class is the word, bo; you said it." "Herzog's some manager, too." "Wagner's a wolf give him credit." "Who said that guy was all through?" "Herzog's some manager, too." " Evers '11 make 'em all hurry." "Who said that guy was all through?" "Brooklyn might slip 'em a worry." " Evers '11 make 'em all hurry." "Yes, but St. Louis is there." "Brooklyn might slip 'em a worry." "Say, Philadelphia's a bear!" 61 By ind Large "Yes, but St. Louis is there." "Some little team that goes double." "Say, Philadelphia's a bear!" "Them guys are apt to make trouble." "Some little team that goes double." "Well, they got Pittsburgh to beat." "Them guys are apt to make trouble." "Think that the Gi'nts'll repeat?" TO JULIA LEGION When in whatever you wear you go, Girl of the present day, Often I wonder how dare you go Clad in that lucent way. You are the theme of my song to-day, You, O transparent dame. Is it the sun that's so strong this year, Or ain't you got no shame? A WARNING TO MYRTILLA Long and true my love for you, Myrtilla ; Fervent as the solar rays. Often, you recall, I used to spill a Lot of ink to print your praise. Blind was I to all your little follies, Deaf to all your faults of speech Fairest of the universe's dollies, Loveliest of human creatch ! Melted by a mastering compassion, Faults of yours I can forgive. I have seen you follow every fashion Feminine, and let you live! BUT and get me right, O my Myrtilla ; Hearken to my warning, girl: Listen: I could absolutely kill a Fluff who wears a fish-book curl. 6 4 PAVLOWA Pavlowa, thou fairest of dancers, Whose name is a blessing to speak, Sooth, I were the worst of romancers, The dullest of bards, and unique, Did I, in a measure melodic, Not sing of thy glorious grace, And wax absolutely rhapsodic Extolling thy face. Pavlowa! than Lilian more airy! Pavlowa! Terpsichore's self! Thou sprite, hamadryad, and fairy, Thou pixie, thou sylph, and thou elf! I think of thee strong as the panther And light as the will-o'-the-wisp; I think thou'rt believe me thome danther- Please pardon my lisp. 65 By and Large Perhaps, as I'm writing, Pavlowa, Thoudst not care to give me a glance. How narrow is Art ! I'd not throw a Good evening to look at thee dance. To each his conception of blisses My notion is staying at home. The tickets I slipped to the Mrs. And penned thee this pome. TO MYRTILLA Myrtilla mine, none is so fair as thou; None is more fain than I to give thee credit For hair and lips and eyes and cheek and brow Some nectarine is accurate ... I said it. For I have been an eager, willing swain, Despite thine Economic Independence; Often my love for thee hath stood a strain, And stood it for thy roseate resplendence. What time thou wearest these horrific styles, The comic lid, the blouse named for the Bulgar, Mine utter love dispelled my scornful smiles, For thou wert funny without being vulgar. 6 7 By and Large I thought thee safe; I deemed my love secure; But now I groan I seek bichloride beakers, For there be things my love cannot endure Thou look'st a fright, Myrt, in thy tennis sneakers. YET THE SEMPITERNAL FOLLY IS HERS " When lovely woman stoops "I '11 quit it ; Perhaps she did in Goldsmith's day; But now she can't as well admit it. Her dresses are not built that way. 68 TO THE PRESENT GIBSON GIRL Lady of the neoGibson school, In the realm of Art I am lignitic; Though I'm there at dice and kelly-pool, I concede that I am not a critic. Yet, O Lady, when I see McClures, And observe your head upon the cover, Is it O, I wonder is it yours? How I blush to think I've been your lover! Yes, your lover . . . In mine early youth, Ere I came to be a minus poet, Then you led the league and that's the truth, Gibson girl of old, and now you know it. BUT and this the reason of my pome This the object of these here addresses: Why not get yourself a brush and comb? I refuse to fall for them there tresses. 69 BALLADE OF GIRLS WHO ATTEND THE PRINCETON-YALE AND YALE-HARVARD FOOTBALL GAMES Written after year* of close observation at the games and the bleak intervals between them. This is the way it appears to me: Every season, as I recall; Every season I seem to see Fairest of maidens, one and all, Watching the collegers play football; And the wx bumana in me exclaims, "Where do you tarry from fall to fall? Where do you hide between the games?" Whence is beauty of such degree, And number so many as to appal? I seek in vain for a simile, Fairest of maidens, one and all. 70 Ballade of Girls Where do you vanish? Behind what wall? Where are your houses and whaur your hames? Slaves are you to some witch's thrall? Where do you hide between the games? I gaze and gaze at the bourgeoisie I find at the play or the concert-hall. But the total never sums up to be Fairest of maidens, one and all. I may see one from an opera stall, Or a star from one of the melodrames; But the annual average is sadly small Where do you hide between the games? L'ENVOI Princesses, pardon my simple scrawl, Fairest of maidens, one and all; But who who are you and what are your names? Where do you hide between the games? 7 TO THE REDFERN CORSET LADY Lady, I was never one to flatter, Never one to pull the insincere; Ever am I chary with my chatter; Few the frails for whom I fill an ear. Diffidence and shyness are my habit; Frightened I as any forest fawn; Timid I as any startled rabbit; Shrinking as Orion at the dawn. Yet I feel no trace of any shyness, Hurling elegiacs at your head, Speaking of your obvious divineness Not a fear, anxiety, or dread. Cast the gyve and break the galling fetter ! Far away discretion's chain I throw, Lady, for I feel I know you better Than most any other girl I know. THE TIRED BUSINESS MAN'S SONG The day is done, and the darkness Falls from the wings of night, As it did in the bygone evenings When Longfellow used to write. I lamp the lights of the city, The scintillant signs of the town, And a feeling of gladness comes o'er me That simply will not down. A feeling of gladness and longing That is not akin to joy, And resembles sorrow only As Tanguay resembles Foy. Come, sing to me some lyric, Some sinful and stupid lay; The sort that the Western buyers Applaud at a cabaret. 7? By and Large Not from the grand old masters, Not from the highbrow bunch, Who make the music-lovers Assert that they had the punch. For, like strains of Debussy music, They make me ready to drop Into deep and endless slumber, And to-night I long for slop. Play from some ragtime lyrist, Whose songs gush'd Heav'n knows whence, As wilful and naughty children Will write with chalk on a fence; Who, down in Tin-Pan Alley, Or elsewhere I may not hint, "Composed" the commonplace "music," Or the words unfit for print. Such songs have power to riot The sluggish pulse of care, From the Anaconda Wriggle To the sin-sin Cinnamon Bear. 74 The Tired Business Mans Song Then play from that aggregation The rag with the utmost pep, And lend to the tune of the lyrist The grace of the newest step. And the night shall be filled with ragtime, And the songs of an elder day Shall repose in the camphored storehouse With "Forsaken" and "Nelly Gray." 75 KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN Don't you hear it? Toot! Toot! Getting near it? Toot! Toot! Wake up, Kate. Don't sleep so late. We've got a date at half-past eight; Don't you hear that hunter's horn? Tootle-oo! Don't be so quiet, Let's have a riot! You're a peach, you're a mango, Let's do the tango Down in the Londonderry bogs. CHORUS Oh, Kathleen, you're a queen, You're my Hibernian peacherine, You're a bear, You're there, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care! You're a gem, K. M. Kathleen Mavournee-ee-een! 76 ANNIE LAURIE Listen to my story, kid, About Annie Laurie, kid, Down on the Maxwelton River. She's no flivver; Her neck's like the swan, are you on? are you on? Her face is fair, she's a bear! she's a bear! She's a wolf, she's an otter, She's a swell turkey-trotter; She's some dancer, that's the answer. Oh, oh ! when I squeeze her I please her, O Caesar! Oh, that Annie Laurie Ra-ha-ha-ag! CHORUS Maxwelton hugs are bunny; Ain't it funny? Ain't it funny? Nab me, grab me, taxicab me; Do that glorious, Gyratorious, Annie Laurie-ous Rag! 77 By and Large III MAID OF ATHENS Maid of Athens, 'fore I go away To the U. S. A., Hear what I say. Don't be gloomy, kid, Listen to me, kid! your beautiful eyes and hair! 1 swear you're a bear. Will you miss me? Come and kiss me, You Athenian, Hell-hellenian maid! CHORUS you swell Athenian skirt ! You're some dessert! When we do that turkey-trot in Greece, 1 can hear 'em holler out "Police!" Oh! ... Oh! ... Oh! ... Oh! . . . Zoe mou sas agapo! Maid of Athens, hug me tight, Before you say "Good Night!" 78 The Cabaret Bards IV ROCK-A-BY, BABY Rag-a-by, baby, the cradle is green, Dad is some trotter and mother's some queen ; And Betty's some lady some lady is right - And Johnny's a dancer and one-steps all night. Rag-a-by, baby, on the tree-top, When the crowd goes, the ragging will stop; When the crowd comes and fills up the hall Down go the dance, the dancers and all. V BREAK! BREAK! BREAK! Break! Break! Break! You're a crocodile, kid; you're a snake, Oh, oh, oh, I wish that I could utter The thoughts that make my heart go flutter, Hear the fisherman's kid and the sailor lad 1 guess they're bad 79 By and Large Singing that ragtime in the boat It gets my goat. But I don't feel What don't you feel? That vanished hand of my sweet Camille, And her voice I cannot never hear no more; That gets me sore, And so I roar: CHORUS Break! Break! Break! At the foot of the crags, As we dance those rags By the sea you and me As we do that craggy, jaggy, waggy, ziggy-zaggy break. 80 THE " PUNCH " Time was when a novel was "gripping"; Time was when a story was "strong"; Time was when a title was "pregnant" or "vital"; And "sweet" or "appealing" a song. Time was when a drama was "ripping"; But now, be it Learning or Lunch, For stuff to get by in the town of N. Y. It's got to be "stuff with a punch." I'm tired of the tale that's "tremendous"; I'm weary of "pulsing with life"; "Significant" also's beginning to pall so I think it is due for the knife. I've stood for a run on "stupendous"; "Convincing" and all of that bunch; But worse, to my mind, than the others com bined, Is the dread and ubiquitous "punch." 81 THE NEO-NEOISM My cup is empty to-night, Cold and dry are its sides, Chilled by the wind from the open window, Empty and void, it sparkles white in the moonlight. The room is filled with the strange scent Of wistaria blossoms. They sway in the moon's radiance And tap against the wall. But the cup of my heart is still, And cold, and empty. From " Absence," by Amy Lowell in the Atlantic Monthly. I have been paying attention To the various movements in Art, In Fiction and Poetry, particularly. Most of them I am unable to imitate, even if I cared to do so. Some of them are sincere; Most of them are phony. 82 The Neo-Neoism Frank discussion of human relations Is a fine thing; I am for it. But Art for Obstetrics' sake, that, Mawruss, Is something else again, As to the New Poetry, should you ask me, I should answer, No. Briefly, and in a word, NO! Henley could do it, but Witter Bynner and Amy Lowell can't. Neither can I. 83 TO THE NEO-PSEUDOISTS Poets and painters and sculptors, Ye of the screeching schools, Scorners of Art's conventions Haters of bonds and rules. Mockers of line and rhythm, Loathers of color and rhyme, What of your new creations? What of the Test of Time? Fetters no longer bind you, Ye of the New To-day, But if a dolt may ask it What have ye got to say? Here is another question, Less of the head than heart: Is the new stuff wonderful merely Because it is rotten art? ONE NEVER KNOWS A daily bard once labored hard and earn estly and long; And all his art and soul and heart he breathed into his song; Each word and line he polished fine, and said: "I guess I'll show 'em That at my height I sure can write consider able poem. Big odds I'll give this stuff will live, and never be forgotten." But few were they who read the lay, and those who did said, "Rotten!" "So be it," said the bard. " Instead of doing stuff sublime, I shall not try to versify, nor build the Lofty Rhyme ; Nor taste nor care shall mark my ware, I'll do it willy-nilly; 85 By and Large Nor worry if the verse be piffle, meaningless and silly." The stuff came out. Did people shout and with applauding greet it? No, they did not. They called it rotten also. Can you beat it? 86 THE EXILES After hearing many state and county society banquet speeches in New York. The exiles from Anyold County Have come to the banqueting board To listen to jokes on the Anyold folks, And haply to Simeon Ford. "Oh, wondrous is Anyold County!" "Dear Harry and Jimmie and Jack." "Theperfectest placeon the globular face " But somehow they never go back. The Georgians, the Texans, the Hoosiers Convene for their annual talk; One night in the year they assemble to cheer Their state, while they knock on New Yawk. O Anyold State is "God's Country"; "Dear Old lowana!" "Alack! We wish we were there where the people are square " But somehow they never go back. 87 By and Large "O dearest Old Kalamafornia ! " "My dear Pennsylourian home!" "We few in the East have assembled to feast " Then some one gets up with a pome. O exiles in Marv'lous Manhattan, I brand ye a hypocrite pack The burg of my birth is the finest on earth But somehow I've never been back. 88 A PHILIPPIC* Down with that phrase soporific, bromidic "Whatever that is" Relic of days paleozoic, druidic "Whatever that is." Does one remark, in a tone unspectacular, " I think the comet diffusely opacular," Some one will cry in the vulgar vernacular: "Whatever that is!" Gurses on him who invented the slogan "Whatever that is!" Jump on his neck with an ensiform brogan Whatever that is Phrase without meaning, bourgeois and pes tiferous, Phrase that is wearying, dull and somniferous, Here is anathema umbraculiferous Whatever that is. *Whateverthatis. NO OFFENCE, SIR To the Editor of the Tribune. Sir: Years I worked on an evening paper, Daily banging my dulcimer, Singing the role of the journal's japer. Every morning or ever nine Clanged its knell from the St. Paul steeple, I was fanning the Spark Divine To coax into flame for the eager* people. And, at night, when I might have been Reading my Meredith, James or Hardy, I would be worrying, wakeful, in Fear of arising the morrow tardy. Years and years and as I look back Over the nights when I starved for slumber, When, as a chronic insomniac, Cattle I counted an endless number 90 No Offence, Sir Back on days when I rose at six, Feeling awearied, weak, and sloppy, Anxious until I had several sticks Written of readable,* zippy* copy. Then when I think of those dreadful days, Mornings hurried and wild and stormy, Through me courses a song of praise, Gratitude whelms me and surges o'er me. Take my thankfulness, warm and deep, Sir, at your shrine I burn this taper: I have found it a cinch to sleep Since I've come to your well-known paper. *Or any other adjective that scans. WHY THE SOCIALIST PARTY IS GROWING DEDICATED TO THE SCHOOL OF JOURNALISM "A story," the reporter said, "about com mercial crime. A merchant's been convicted of selling phony stuff. The sentence is a thousand meg and seven years of time - "A hundred words," the city Ed. replied, "will be enough." "A story," the reporter said, "about a crim son dame Just landed from the steamer, wearing slippers that are red. She used to be the Dearest Friend of Em peror Wotsisname " "Three columns and a layout!" cried the eager city Ed. THE BALLAD OF THE TWO LAME MEN As I was strolling a-down the street, In an utterly random way, A couple of men I chanced to meet And a piteous pair were they. Their limbs were bent, their heads awry, They seemed two sorry freaks; And I spake them thus, oh, thus spake I, In the manner of Percy's Reliques: O have ye been to the footballe-field And maimed been and bent? Or gat ye hurts that never healed In a railway's accident? O have ye been to the bloudy wars? O have ye been through a wreck? O whence are come these wounds and scars, And the crick of the back and neck? 93 By and Large We haena been to the footballe-field Nor maimed been nor bent. Nor gat we hurts that never healed In a railway's accident. We haena been to the bloudy wars. We haena been in a wreck, And yet we have these wounds and scars, And the crick of the back and neck. O tell me, tell me, my sad-eyed men, Gif ye haena been to wars, Whence ever these bruises came, and when Acquired ye those dredesome scars? Then up and spake me those gentil sirs: " By goddiswoundes, we are The sixth and seventh passengers Of a seven-passenger car." 94 THE BALLAD OF THE SORROWFULL BRIDE I came upon a fayre ladye, Her face was drawne and grey; Now saints thee save, thou fayre ladye, What makst thee look that way? Hast thou had heavy loss at bridge? Has ruined thy sonsie gowne? Are all thy friends in the cool countrie Whiles that thou stickst in towne? Do blaw the winds too hot, too hot? Do blaw the winds too fresh? tell me why thou hast this case Of psycholog. depresh? 1 haena lost a penny at bridge, I haena torn my gowne, I lust not after the cool countrie, Nor sorrow to stick in towne. 95 By and Large The winds blaw never too hot, too hot, The winds blaw never too fresh; And yet I have a dreadsome case Of psycholog. depresh. I haena now yweddid been A year but hardly twa; But my true love I never do see From Spring till late in Fa'. In early March he leaveth my side Eche day when cometh the sonne, And never I see him or hear him else Till day hath long been done. In March, in April, and in May, In June and in July, In August and in September Ay, till the snaw doth fly. His bonnie face I never see, He hath no word to say, He cometh home so weary at night He straightway hitteth the hay. 9 6 The Ballad of the Sorrowfull Bride My hosband is no labouring man Must delve for daily bread, And yet I scarce have spoken him Since the day when we were wed. But this is why my cheek is pale, And red and dull my lamp: My true love is a sportsman brave golfing tennis An amateur - fishing \ champ, polo sailing 97 CUI CULPA? The Triangle Fire, March 25, 1911 A train collision killed a few ; " investigation " came; The "probe" was sharp, the "probe" was deep, but "no one" was to blame. The overworked despatcher, true, had fallen fast asleep, But that was not the railroad's fault and the "probe" was sharp and deep. A hundred souls, a thousand souls were sac rificed to flame; The "probe" was long, the "probe" was deep, but where to "fix the blame"? " Twas panic killed the audience; the loss of life was due To trepidation of the mob," said Twelve Good Men and True. 98 Cui Culpa? Pray God we grow not bitter, but it makes the vision red This hellish truth of wiped-out youth, this tale of needless dead ! No single name can bear the blame, go "probe" ye ne'er so deep, For the cost of living rises, but the cost of life is cheap. 99 MONODY ON THE ASTOR HOUSE Lament, O Muse, and heave a suspiration; Make me an epicedium, a threne, An ode to fit my humid lachrimation, A dirge ultramarine! For heavy I, and supercharged with woe, On reading that the Astor House must go. Thou noble inn where oft I [Criesof "Louder"] Repaired to find a frugal bit of lunch; Where grew the city's only perfect chowder And hot Jamaica punch - So deep my woe that thou art to be razed I question it can fittingly be phrased. Farewell, farewell ! If Byron I may borrow I read of thee in many an Alger tome, Unthinking that, in age and bowed with sorrow, I'd spill to thee a pome; Unknowing that some day I should deplore The announcement that thou wert to be no more. too Monody on the Astor House Yet though my trend be super-sentimental, Thine end I truly do not mind a bit; My grief for that is wholly incidental, This is my woe, to wit : The riveting and blasting I must hear - Shades of the Woolworth tower! another year! iot BERMUDA I point my new-filled pen at thee From an embarrassment of topics, Fair gem of the cerulean sea, Glistening down in the semi-tropics. Land where duress is but a dream, Land of evaporated cream. Isle of the cedar and the palm, Island of sempiternal summer, Thou wert a benison and balm To me, thy present paean-strummer. Land of the lily and the rose And misses'-size Lotharios. Bermuda! fairy British isle Whose lexicon is void of "hurry," Whose murmuring says " Rest-a-while," Whose motto comes to "I should worry!' Land of the oleander path, And eight per day (without a bath). 102 Bermuda Not that I grudge my frittered wealth; Not mine to seek Bermuda's wherefore; I landed there in quest of health And found it. 1 am grateful. Therefore It is the smallest of my cares The natives are not there for theirs. Shall it be so in Paradise? Shall I be fluttering my pinions And yearn to be among the guys Inhabiting the sub-dominions? * * * I only know that I came home And pounded out this little pome. 103 MATES FOR THE MATELESS [These words are rhymeless: Almost, person, modest, corner, peril, coffin, chilblain, dainty, always, cleanly, outside, nervous, absence, hardly, pageant, language. London Chronicle.} Poets, as we love to call most Every bard that writes a verse on Any subject, it is almost Time to call this London person. Though I'm reticent and modest, As is every word-adorner, This remark, of all the oddest, Draws me boldly from my corner. "Rhymeless." Say it at your peril, Ere 1 order up a coffin. Is there no such stone as "beryl"? Wide indeed the sleeve I scoff in. 104 Mates for the Mateless Though the mention of a chilblain Isn't beautiful or dainty, "There's a rhyme," says Mr. Will Elaine, He's authority, now. Ain't he? Be you smooth or wear you Galways, Or from Atchison or Henley, Rhymes are very easy, always, And the sport is oh, so cleanly! Words are but a showy pageant; Bards are finishers of language Unionlaboring canst imagine 't? For a small and daily gang-wage. If a bard would only grab sense, And would think in manner bardly, Would he rail at rhymes their absence? Would he do it? Would he? Hardly! Turn 'em frontside, inside, outside, And the rhymes will surely serve us. Why, if I had any doubts I'd Be considerably nervous. 105 "IN SUCH A NIGHT I love to sing of the winter, thing In a rugged manner and bold; I like to spill of the bracing chill, And chant of the tingling cold. I love to write of the stormy night, And the rage of the sleet and hail; I'm fain to tell of the snowy spell, And speak of the winds that wail. I love to spiel of the way I feel As the terrible storm destroys The sturdy ship (in the manner of Kip- Ling, Newbolt, or Alfred Noyes). I love to sing of the winter thing, In a vigorous, yearnful pome But gosh ! how I fear the walk from here To the subway bound for home! 1 06 CLOTHES, THE BIRTH RATE, ETC. When as in silks his Julia went Whom Herrick lyricized with passion, The press declared Gehenna-sent Each new and femininny fashion. When hoopskirts made their wide appeal, During the war misnomered Civil, The papers made their readers feel The girls were going to the divil. And in the days of sweeping trains, And sleeves as thick as Vallombrosa, They said that women had no brains Had they a chance for Heaven? No, sah. And in these here x-radiant days Of grenadine and voile and dimit- Y, press and pulpit, in amaze, Cry out aghast: "This is the limit!" 107 By and Large What is the reason for this piece? Why did I spill these agonistics? Observe each year the great increase In vital, so to speak, statistics. 108 THE DOWNWARD COURSE [A man is on the downward course when the thought shapes itself in his reveries to some woman. LAURA JEAN LIBBEY.] Totters my reason as I think Of heights by great men reached and kept, And how an evil worse than Drink Made them unhonored and unwept. A man is on the downward course When woman-thoughts buzz in his bean I quote from that pellucid source Of cupid-counsel, Lorajean. I muse how Herrick might have penned Some snappy stuff to give him fame Had he but had less time to spend On Julia or some other dame; How "Goddess excellently bright" And "Drink to Me" by rare Ben Jons- On never would have seen the light Had saner matters filled his sconce. 109 By and Large While Moore, had he but put his time On something that resembled work, And not on sentimental rhyme, Might have been an insurance clerk; Had Burns, whose lines are all in praise Of queens (and some, I own, were beauts), Not mused away his nights and days, He might have been in cloaks-and-suits. The Hall of Fame is filled with those Who merit well the Libbeyan wrath, Who shunned the upward hills of prose And coasted on the "downward" path. And take it on the word of one* Who's coasted from the Androscoggin To Puget Sound, it's lots of fun To ride upon that there toboggan. *Oh, dear, no! no LINES WRITTEN AFTER RE-READING GRAY'S "ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUN TRY CHURCHYARD " AND REALIZ ING THAT EIGHT YEARS WERE GIVEN TO ITS COMPOSITION The w. k. old Thomas Gray Took eight long years to write his verses, The "Elegy" that tells how we Some day must ride in sable hearses. And yet that song is not so long; It's only twenty-eight short stanzas A morning's work for Old Bill Kirk, George Fitch or Uncle Walt of Kansas. If only I had time to try, (Thus runs my frequent meditation), My fancy's creature'd surely reach Perfection in poetization. HI By and Large Yet, looking o'er mine eight years' lore, I know, though flatterers may con me, That while in speed I may exceed, In thought T. Gray had something on me. 113 ON EMULATION [Like Thackeray, he was born in India; like Keats, studied medi cine for a time; and, like Coleridge, there was a period when he had soldier ambitions. Publisher's note about A. S. M. Hutchinson author of "The Happy Warrior."] Like Finley Peter Dunne, I lamped the light Of morning in Chicago, Illinois; And yet the spanless distance from his height Is just as great as when I was a boy. Like H. G. Wells, I once engaged in trade; Like him I went and married me a wife; A parsnip for the difference that* made! I never wrote a novel in my life. Like T. Carlyle, I find it hard to sleep; I'm no misogynist neither was Moore; Like Hood, I suffer sailing o'er the deep Yet nil the dent I make in Litrachoor. Like Chesterton, I'm tardy with my stuff; Like Poe, I hate to labor very long; Yet all I do is this Facade of Fluff. There must be something radically wrong. * Refers to trade, by request. BRIGHT SAFFRON SHEETS AFTER "BRIGHT COLLEGE YEARS" Bright saffron sheets of crime and strife, The wildest of our hectic life, How many, many times a day Ye have your 96-point say ! The papers come, the papers go, The circulations wane and grow This be your slogan, an ye burst : " For God, for Country, and for Hearst ! " In Mexico when troubles rise, Who is the wisest of the wise? Who gleams like Henry of Navarre? Who but our hero, Willie R. ! What benefits the human race? War, WAR! all o'er the well-known place War though the order seem reversed - "For God, for Country, and for Hearst!" 114 DO YOU KNOW? I shot a pome into the Tower, It showed acumen, skill, and power; Yet no one grabbed me by the hand To say: "Old kick, this stuff is grand!" But some one went to work and wrote: " Dear Sir: You are a rotten pote"; Another said: "You have no style"; Another: "My, that verse is vile!" And so I thought: "Why slave and strive To be the greatest bard alive? I'll write without the slightest care For words and rhythm and rhyme so there!" Whereat I did a slipshod rhyme And said: "To print it were a crime." Twas printed . . . And the public swore As roundly at me as before. 115 By and Large I learn from these two flights in rhyme You can't please people all the time: In fact, though earnest your endeavor, It's difficult to please 'em ever. W. S. 1564-1914 WORDS BY SHAKESPEARE. ARRANGEMENT BY US. O how I faint when I of you would write! My tongue-tied Muse in- manners holds her still, Brief as the lightning in the collied night, New lighted on a heaven-kissing hill. My verse alone had all thy gentle grace For every vulgar paper to rehearse; My black is fairest in thy judgment's face And found such fair assistance in my verse. Imperial Csesar, dead and turned to clay, By any other name would smell as sweet. Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day? I know not where is that Promethean heat. 117 By and Large What hast thou then more than thou hadst before? They placed a fruitless crown upon my head. Like as the waves make toward the pebbled shore, Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed. MS COMPOSED IN THE COMPOSING ROOM At stated .ic times I love to sit and off rhymes Till ,tose at last I fall Exclaiming "I don't A all." Though I'm an * objection By running this in this here This 8HF" of the Fleeting Hour, This lofty -ician Tower A Ifer's hope dispels All fear of deadly ||. You think these [ ] are a pipe? Well, not on your feotype. 119 EUGENIC LOVE LYRICS Eugenevieve, Eugenevieve, The days may come, the days may go; But each to other we shall cleave, As long as Science tells us so. Rock-a-by, baby, thy crib's hygienic, Papa's a doctor and ma's a eugenic; And don't take a husband unless he's a gent Whose mark in the health league's one hun dred per cent. Nut-brown maiden, thy respiration's perfect, love; Nut-brown maiden, thy respiration's fine, Thy respiration's fine, love, I'll say the same for mine, love. Nut-brown maiden, thy circulation's normal, love; Nut-brown maiden, thy weight's exactly right. Eugenic Love Lyrics There was an old woman who lived in a shoe, Her progeny numbered about thirty-two; But she gave them all books on Eugenics to read, Which lessened their filial affection, indeed. Some asked me where affection grew And nothing I did state; But with my finger pointed to My Julia's perfect weight. When as to walk my Julia goes Then, then, (methinks) how finely shows Her healthinesse from eyes to toes. Next, when I cast mine eyes and see The health department's guarantee, I wis, she is the maid for me! 121 SPEAKING OF ROBERT BURNS BORN JANUARY 25, 1759 As bonnie blaws the wind the nicht, An' gowden glists the fire, an' bricht O'er Braidswa' gleams th' electric licht, My fancy turns, Wi' a' its wee bit feckless micht, To Bobbie Burns. Puir mon, we celebrate his name An* read his rhymes in ilka hame; An' yet, if back to airth he came The nicht, I fancy We'd hauld his Mary up to blame, And eke his Nancy. For this, I say, is sooth, ye ken, In Glasgic Toun or Drumloch Glen : "A man's a man" an' men are men; An' folk forgive. (Ay, that they do, but seldom when The sinners live.) 122 Speaking of Robert Burns Wi' mickle wae my teardrops fa', For dread I canna get awa' Wi' phrases mair than ane or twa In tongue forgotten. Yet this, though I'm nae chiel to blaw, Isna sae rotten. THE BATTLE OF SWATTERLOO I swat the fly upon the ear It falls to earth. And then, oh, dear! I look upon the window-pane And see a dozen still unslain. "When Freedom from her mountain height Unfurled - " you know the rest. The women, bless their simple souls, Sought not the suffrage at the polls They made no mad request. Yet Freedom, says McMaster, won At Bunker Hill and Lexington. "When Music, heavenly maid, was young You know the line I quote - The maids of Athens, beauteous band, Made never a hint of a demand To be allowed to vote. Yet I recall, without fatigue, That Hellas led the Eastern League. "When Eve upon the first of men The apple pressed with cant," She begged no ballot as a boon To keep the universe in tune, As does the militant. Yet had the home not been her sphere, The snake might not have gained her ear. 124 THE OPTATIVE MOOD My soul to-day is far away, Like that of T. Buchanan Read's; And I am fretful with the bay (From one of Richard Hovey's screeds). Mine be a cot beside the hill! I share Old Samuel Rogers' wish. To sport with shady Amaryll! Like Milton that is my ambish. My heart's in (you remember Burns?) I wish I were where Helen lies ! For when it comes to footless yearns I string along with all those guys. I sing of books, of blossoms, birds Like Herrick, a Pandean piper; But all I do is fix up words To feed a laggard linotyper. 125 By and Large Beside the idle summer sea I long to see the roses bloom. What time I pen this poetree In this here hot composing room, 126 LINES ON BLUSHING FOR "PUNCH" EXCITED OLD LADY (as express thunders through station) : "Oh, Porter, doesn't that train stop here?" PORTER: "No, lydy, it doesn't even hesitate." Punch. Or ever in me burned poetic fire, Or ever I had cut my second teeth I heard the laughsome art of Mclntyre And Heath. They pulled that wheeze. I yelped with joy, and then I told it to my father in my glee. "That gag was old," he said, "in Eighteen Twen- Ty Three." "Our Country's Father, better known as George, Would spring it, just to keep the soldiers gay, That woeful winter down at Valley Forge, P-a. 127 By and Large 'When C. J. Caesar's legions were oppressed, By Vercingetorix's hostile horde, And Julius told ambassadors that jest, They roared. 'And when the afternoons were dull and dark, And Shem was looking for a favoring breeze, Old Noah told the tourists on the Ark That wheeze. 'And Japheth said: 'O father, that is old; Your s. of h. is one that makes me grieve. That was the primal jest that Adam told To Eve.' " Which makes it pretty hard for me. For days To those with whom I daily spear my lunch Alone have I been paeaning the praise Of "Punch." 128 TO THOSE CONCERNED SPLITTING THE BLAME WITH THE ESTATE OF A. TENNYSON. Ask me no more; water may flow uphill; The celebrated sun set in the east; New York some day be properly policed; But, suppliants, there be limits to my skill Ask me no more ! Ask me no more : confined is my power, Though thousands bend the knee at my behest, Though millions giggle at my feeblest jest. Cease writing, phoning, calling every hour; Ask me no more! Ask me no more : were Bourbon I , or Guelph, Yet should I answer no to all your queries; No, I can't get you tickets for The Series I don't know how to get the things myself, ASK ME NO MORE! 129 "I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER" I remember, I remember, The Sodom Herald said : "The wave of crime is at an end; Corruption now is dead." And the Gomorrah News rejoiced, In headlines high and loud, "The land has been delivered from That awful crooked crowd." I remember, I remember, The Nineveh Gazette 'No longer will the town be rife With liquor and roulette." And how the Athens Courier cried That graft would have to cease, And that would rise undimmed again The glory that was Greece. 130 "/ Remember, I Remember" I remember, I remember, Twelve, eight, four years ago The things the optimistic sheets Would print and think them so. I hate to take the cynic pose, But I'd like to bet a lid The millennium's just as far away As when I was a kid. 131 THE LANDING OF THE NEW HAVEN FATHERS ON NEW ENGLAND AND ENVIRONS The Mellen waves dashed high On a stern and rail-bound coast, And the tracks from Boston to N. Y. Were (see the Evening Post). And the heavy night hung dark, As Felicia said of yore, When a band of directors set their mark On the tame New England shore. Amidst the storm they sang, Led by their president, And the theme was "Let the Public Hang!" And the Tune was Eight Per Cent. What sought they thus afar? (Pardon my noisy mirth) TheN.Y., N.H. & H. R.R. They sought the well-known earth. 132 The Landing of the New Haven Fathers Ay, call it Mellen ground, The land through which they fare; They have done full well with what they found Water and earth and air. '33 WITH GENUFLEXIONS A crash, a crush, a crowding, A mob compact and tight, The crime of every morning, The disgrace of every night. A service skimped and shameful, A system pinched and punk, Some call it Rapid Transit, And others call it bunk. A "block" and a "crippled service," A crush and a stifling wait, And a poison in the atmosphere That engenders human hate. But there's profits in the subway, And dividends in the L Some call it Rapid Transit, And others call it hell. 134 O EVER THUS! LINES ON HEARING THE RIIMOR THAT THE SUN BUILDING, WHICH IS CONTIGUOUS TO OUR NEW OFFICE WINDOWS, IS TO BE TORN DOWN, AND A SKYSCRAPER TO BE ERECTED Of IIS PLACE. Aye, tear her tattered structure down, Long has it wabbled, low, And many an orb has ached to see That building on the Row; Beneath it rang the Dana shout, And burst the Laffan roar; But it is not a-going to be Around these parts no more. I weep not for the brighter days And nights of yesteryear; For Chester Lord 1 have no sigh, For Clarke I shed no tear. But ye that own that shambling hulk Of other days' renown, O let that red brick structure stand ! Please do not tear it down ! 35 By and Large I heard the Hudson Terminal Go up for two whole years; The Singer and the Woolworth Towers Are riveted on mine ears; And just as, where I've set my desk, A pleasant time is had, They think of tearing down the Sun, And it makes me awful mad. 136 ON THE USUFRUCT OF WORRYING To worry is futile; To fret is a strain ; To mope is inutile And wearies the brain. Depression is folly, A carker is care; A waste, melancholy; A tyrant, despair. A prey is injection; Depressing is gloom; Corroding reflection, And leads to the tomb. Though life may be sweet, I Envisage the grey, For tcedium vitce Has got me to-day. 37 By and Large Yet brooding hath uses That one may employ, And worry produces As surely as joy. Can wakefulness pay? There Is never a doubt. Last night as I lay there I figured this out. TO THE JUST GRADUATED Youth of the bounding ambition, Out in the strenuous mob, Shall you Accept a Position? Or will you Hunt for a Job? 138 ON MORNINGSIDE HEIGHTS [Heard in the vicinage of any fraternity house any open- window evening.) Come, landlord, fill the Spanish cav and I will pledge with mine O Genevieve, sweet Genevieve and everything so fine For every little movement in a one-horse open sleigh Where are the verdant freshmen I'm a pilgrim old dog Tray. How can I bear to ubi sunt o pocula to-night Ever of thee I'm just a song sea-strand and billows white My bonnie lies in days of old the shades of Upidee To drive dull care Columbia on a weeping willow tree. 139 BALLADE OF A JADED IMAGINATION "Little remains to be told." Old Cap Collier, Nick Carter and Frank Merriuiell. When I was vibrantly young, (Well I remember the days) How I would wander among Carter's and Merriwell's ways! Murder and plunder and blaze, And, when he garnered the gold, This was my favorite phrase: Little remains to be told. Turning to songs that are sung, Blushful, unspeakable lays, Songs that the decent of tongue Utterly shock and amaze; Filth of the cheap cabarets, Nothing is there to withhold. Say every word! How it pays! Little remains to be told. 140 Ballade of a Jaded Imagination " Breathless and eager they clung." "Panting, she sent back his gaze." "Down on the floor she was flung." " 'Damn you!' she crushed her bou quets." " 'Curse you!' came back, in a haze." "Why is your nature so cold?" "Crash! went the tottering vase." Little remains to be told. L'ENVOI Authors of books and of plays, Writers of songs overbold, You're at the crux of the craze Little remains to be told. 141 AS TO AN URBAN SUMMER Friend, you who write of rural joys Far from the madding old metrop, Far from the town's unnerving noise, Far from the clamor of the shop Know you how fine and cool it is In urbe hac (the phrase is Latin For this here little village, viz., To wit: Manhattan)? Know you the town is full of folks? Know you the shows are full of queens? That every mail is full of jokes Born of the nation's brightest beans? At least one ball game every day; A crime, perhaps; and an indictment Why, nowhere in these U.S.A. Is more excitement. 142 As to an Urban Summer Think you that I could bear to lie Around with not a thing to do But lamp the celebrated sky And mark its varying shades of blue? Think you that it would be enough To idle all the summer day so? Could I endure that sort of stuff? * * * * Well, I should say so! 14* A LEXICOGRAPHER'S LOVE-POEM "Words are like If aces; and wbere they most abound Much fruit of sense beneath is rarely found." Thus Pope. I pray you note tbat be said "rarely," Or ever tbat you judge of me unfairly. Lady, my love, my nymph, my fay, Carissima, desiderata, Divinely fragrant flow'r-o-May, Light of my life, persona grata Belov&i, idol, pixy, sprite, Elf, moppet, fairy, Main Idea, My fair, my Phantom of Delight, My darling and my Dulcinea Cherished, adored, revered, admired, Enchantress, true-love and heart's nearest, Missed, wanted, coveted, desired, Attraction, jewel, mopsey, dearest 144 A Lexicographer's Love-Poem Inamorata, magnet, pearl, Venus, allurement, needed, yearned for, Whim, fancy, favorite, angel, girl, Height of ambition, honey, burned for O cara mia, hertz, ma belle, Duck, empress, queen, and consecration, Exalted, blessed damosel, Spark, flame, and fire of inspiration Geliebte, sweetheart, longed for, pet, Star, single object of affection, League-leaderess and One Best Bet, Caprice, wish, whimsy, predilection O solar system, summit, goal, You peach, you precious one, you sweet, you! My beacon bright, my Heart-and-Soul . . . I wonder if I'll ever meet you. 145 THE WET BLANKET LEGION Whenas for fishing I am fain And avid of the rod and reel, I take me to a lake in Maine And harken to the woods' appeal. Daily I fling my futile line Employing all mine Art and Reason; "You should," they say, when I repine, "Have tried it earlier in the season." Whenas I take an ocean trip, The waves are ninety cubits high; The vessel does the Mortal Dip, Arid I, affrighted, yearn to die. "Some storm, eh, what?" I gasp, as who Should say "That statement is finific." Says one: "Why, this is nothing to A storm I saw on the Pacific." 146 The Wet Blanket Legion I make a journey in July Through faery forests lined in green; Above me is the summer sky A wondrous day, a perfect scene. I praise the picture. "Oh, tut, tut!" Replies my friend, the village printer, "The woods is nice in summer, BUT Ye oughter see 'em in the winter." And thus it is where'er I go; I fail to find the Perfect State. Whether my step be swift or slow, I go too soon or come too late. These random rhymes, I own, may be A piece of pleasant versifying. But, bless my soul, you ought to see What I can do when I am trying. 147 THE MONUMENT OF Q. HORATIUS FLACCUS* Horace: Book HI, Ode 30. AD MELPOMENEN. Exegi monumentum acre perennius Regalique situ pyramidum altius. Reader, the monument that I've Erected ever shall survive As long as brass; and it shall stay Despite the stormiest, wildest day. Though winds assail, yet shall it stand High as the pyramids, and grand. Eternally my name will be Triumphant in posterity. Recurrent will my praises sound; I shall be terribly renowned. Born though I was of folk obscure, Unknown, 1 spilled Some Lit'rature. Now, O Melpomene, my queen Entwine the laurel on my bean! *From the Evening Mail, Dec. 31,1913. THE END THE COUNTRY LITE PRESS GARDEN CITY, N. Y. UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY I AA 000284920