The Bashful
Earthquake

The Earthquake rumbled

And mumbled

And grumbled;

And then he bumped,

And everything tumbled—

Bumpyty-thump!

Thumpyty-bump!—

Houses and palaces all in a lump!

“Oh, what a crash!

Oh, what a smash!

How could I ever be so rash?”

The Earthquake cried.

“What under the sun

Have I gone and done?

I never before was so mortified!”

Then away he fled,

And groaned as he sped:

“This comes of not looking before I tread.”

Out of the city along the road

He staggered, as under a heavy load,

Growing more weary with every league,

Till almost ready to faint with fatigue.

He came at last to a country lane

Bordering upon a field of grain;

And just at the spot where he paused to rest,

In a clump of wheat, hung a Dormouse nest.

The sun in the west was sinking red,

And the Dormouse had just turned into bed,

Dreaming as only a Dormouse can,

When all of a sudden his nest began

To quiver and shiver and tremble and shake.

Something was wrong, and no mistake!

In a minute the Dormouse was wide awake,

And, putting his head outside his nest,

Cried: “Who is it dares disturb my rest?”

His voice with rage was a husky squeak.

The Earthquake by now had become so weak

He’d scarcely strength enough to speak.

“I’m sorry, but I’m afraid it’s me.

Please don’t be angry. I’ll try to be—”

No one will know what he meant to say,

For all at once he melted away.

The Dormouse, grumbling, went back to bed,

“Oh, bother the Bats!” was all he said.

A scarecrow in a field of corn,

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.

“And once I dreamt—oh, vision blest!

That she alighted on my breast.

’T is 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.

The politest musician that ever was seen

Was Montague Meyerbeer Mendelssohn Green.

So extremely polite he would take off his hat

Whenever he happened to meet with a cat.

And so, when I bow as you see to a cat,

It is n’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!”

I saw, one day, when times were very good,

A newly rich man walking in a wood,

Who chanced to meet, all hungry, lean, and sore,

The wolf that used to sit outside his door.

Forlorn he was, and piteous his plaint.

“Help me!” he howled. “With hunger I am faint.

It is so long since I have seen a door—

And you are rich, and you have many score.

When you’d but one, I sat by it all day;

Now you have many, I am turned away.

Help me, good sir, once more to find a place.

Prosperity now stares me in the face.”

The newly rich man, jingling all the while

The silver in his pocket, smiled a smile:

He saw a way the wolf could be of use.

“Good wolf,” said he, “you’re going to the deuce,—

The dogs, I mean,—and that will never do;

I think I’ve found a way to see you through.

I too have worries. Ever since I met

Prosperity I have been sore beset

By begging letters, charities, and cranks,

All very short in gold and long in thanks.

Now, if you’ll come and sit by my front door

From eight o’clock each morning, say, till four,

Then every one will think that I am poor,

And from their pesterings I’ll be secure.

Do you accept?” The wolf exclaimed, “I do!”

The rich man smiled; the wolf smiled; I smiled, too,

And in my little book made haste to scrawl:

“Thus affluence makes niggards of us all!”

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 fast!”

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!

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.

Yet if in modest verse I tell

My tale, some editor, maybe,

May like it very much, and—well,

My bread will then return to me.

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.

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

’T was 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.

I know an entomologist

Who thinks it not a sin

To catch a harmless butterfly,

And stick it, with a pin,

Upon a piece of paper white,

And underneath the same,

In letters large and plain, to write

The creature’s Latin name.

I know another little man

Who catches, now and then,

A microscopic little thought

And goads it, with a pen,

To rhyme, until we wonder quite

How it can keep so tame,

And why he never fails to write

Beneath (in full) his name.

If you should ask me to decide

The which of them I’d rate

The greater torment of the two

I should not hesitate.

It’s wicked with a pin to bore

A butterfly—but then,

I loathe the other fellow more,

Who bores me with his pen.

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 heart-strings 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 that froze,”

Or “cheek of Rose.”

Upon the temple dome

Of Solomon the wise

There paused, returning home,

A pair of butterflies.

He did the quite blasé

(Did it rather badly),

Wherefore—need I say?—

She adored him madly.

Enthusiasm she

Did not attempt to curb:

“Goodness gracious me!

Is n’t this superb!”

He vouchsafed a smile

To indulge her whimsy,

Surveyed the lofty pile,

And drawled, “Not bad—but flimsy!

“Appearances, though fine,

Lead to false deduction;

This temple, I opine,

Is shaky in construction.

“Think of it, my dear.

All this glittering show

Would crumble—disappear—

Should I but stamp my toe!

“If I should stamp—like this—”

His wife cried, “Heavens! don’t!”

He answered, with a kiss,

“Very well; I won’t.”

Now, every blessed word

Said by these butterflies,

It chanced, was overheard

By Solomon the wise.

So spake King Solomon.

The butterflew away.

His wife to meet him ran:

“Oh, dear, what did he say?”

The butterfly had here

A chance to shine, and knew it.

Said he: “The king, my dear,

Implored me not to do it!”

“Alackaday!”

Exclaimed the man. “I’ve thrown away,

And all for naught, a chance immense;

I only wish I had some sense!”

The Goblin waved 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.”

Permit me, madame, 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.

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!

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, “I’ll thank you if you will

Pick up my cloak, sir!”

Said the youth, “I refer not to college degrees,

Nor dates that one crams in his skull,

I complain not because you are lacking in these,

But because you’re so awfully dull!

“I have studied you now I should think more or less

For twenty-one years, and I know

You right through and through, and I can but confess

You are really confoundedly slow.”

Said the world, “My dear sir, you are right, there’s no crime

Like dullness—henceforth I will try

To be clever—forgive me! I’m taking your time,

Perhaps we’ll meet later! Good-bye!”

“Phyllis, if I could 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

Paintings must be framed with gold!”

Mr. Sparrow: Why don’t you go to bed,

If you’re so very sleepy?—it’s high time!

The sun has set an hour ago, and I’m

Going home myself as fast as I can trot.

Night is the time for sleep.

Mr. Owl: The time for what?

The time for sleep, you say?

Mr. Sparrow: That’s what I said.

Mr. Owl:

Well, my dear bird, your reason must have fled!

Mr. Sparrow (icily):

I do not catch your meaning quite, I fear.

Mr. Owl:

I mean you’re talking nonsense. Is that clear?

Mr. Sparrow (angrily):

Say that again—again, sir, if you dare!

Say it again!

Mr. Owl: As often as you care.

You’re talking nonsense—stuff and nonsense—there!

Mr. Sparrow (hopping one twig higher up):

You are a coward, sir, and impolite!

(Hopping on a still higher twig)

And if you were n’t beneath me I would fight.

Mr. Owl:

I am beneath you, true enough, my friend,

By just two branches. Will you not descend?

Or shall I—

Mr. Sparrow (hastily):

No, don’t rise. Tell me instead

What was the nonsense that you thought I said.

Mr. Owl:

It may be wrong, but if I heard aright,

You said the proper time for sleep was night.

Mr. Sparrow:

That’s what I said, and I repeat it too!

Mr. Owl:

Then you repeat a thing that is not true.

Day is the time for sleep, not night.

Mr. Sparrow:Absurd!

Who’s talking nonsense now?

Mr. Owl:Impudent bird!

How dare you answer back, you upstart fowl!

Mr. Sparrow: How dare you call me upstart—
you—you—Owl!

Mr. Owl:

This is too much! I’ll stand no more, I vow!

Defend yourself!

Mr. Bear (looking out of hollow tree):

Come, neighbors, stop that row!

What you’re about I’m sure I cannot think.

I only know I have n’t had one wink

Of sleep. Indeed, I’ve borne it long enough.

’T would put the mildest temper in a huff;

And I am but a bear. Why don’t you go

To bed like other folks, I’d like to know?

Summer is long enough to keep awake—

Winter’s the time when honest people take

Their three months’ sleep.

Mr. Sparrow: That settles me! I fly!

Dear Mr. Owl and Mr. Bear, good-by!    [Exit.

Mr. Owl:

I must go too, to find another wood.

Every one’s mad in this queer neighborhood!

It is not safe such company to keep.

Good evening, Mr. Bear. [Exit.

Mr. Bear: Now I shall sleep.

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 mayden ghostlie faire.

Thus to the holy manne she spoke:

“Woe’s me!” thenne sayd the friar; “if thou

Be sente to tempt me breake my vowe;

Butte whether mayde or fiende thou be,

I’ll stake my soul to sette thee free.”

The holye manne then crossed hym thrice,

And kissed the mayde—when in a trice

She vanished—

“Heaven forgive me now!”

Exclaimed the friar—“my broken vowe.

“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 for-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 any one shall say hym “no”

Beneath the holye mistletoe.

One day beneathe a willowe tree,

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!”

“Now, you,” quothe he, “must seeke for me!”

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.

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 café

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.

1.30—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— The world is now a sea of words

3.30— Without a sign of shore.

6— 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!”

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.

“Dear me! Ha! ha! It makes me laugh.

Where has he left his other half?

If he could find it he would be

A really fine Giraffe, like me.”

The book made a tremendous hit.

The public all devoured it,

Save one, who, minding how he missed

Devouring the author—hissed.

A dark old Raven lived in a tree,

With a little Tree-frog for company,

In the midst of a forest so thick with trees

Only thin people could walk with ease.

Yet though the forest was dank and dark,

The little Tree-frog was gay as a lark;

He piped and trilled the livelong day,

While the Raven was just the other way:

He grumbled and croaked from morn till night,

And nothing in all the world was right.

The moon was too pale, or the sun too bright;

The sky was too blue, or the snow too white;

The thrushes too gay, or the owls too glum;

And the squirrels—well, they were too squirrelsome.

And as for the trees, why did they grow

In a wood, of all places?—he’d like to know.

A wood is so dark and unhealthy, too,

For trees; and besides, they obstruct the view.

And so it went on from morn till night:

The Tree-frog piping with pure delight,

And the Raven croaking with all his might

That nothing in all the world was right.

Well, in this same wood, it chanced one day

The enchanter Merlin lost his way;

And stopping to rest ’neath the very tree

Where the Raven and Tree-frog were taking their tea,

He divined of a sudden, by magic lore,

A thing I forgot to mention before:

That the forest and all that therein did dwell

Owed their present shape to an ancient spell.

Now a spell, though a tiresome job to make,

Is the easiest thing in the world to break,

When once you know how to perform the trick,

As Merlin did. Waving his magic stick,

He cried, “Let this forest and everything in it

Take its former shape!” When lo! in a minute,

In place of the Raven, a stern old sage

All robed in black and all bent with age;

And where the little Tree-frog had been

Sat a goodly youth all dressed in green;

And around about was a flowery lawn

Where the forest had been. Said the sage, with a yawn:

“I must have been dozing—well, to resume—

As I was saying, this world of gloom—”

“Oh, bother the world of gloom—just hear

That thrush!” cried the youth; “the first this year!”

The king, for fear long peace had made

His subjects over-bold,

To wake the glorious spirit

Of timidity of old,

Announced one day he would bestow

Princess Bunita’s hand

On the Bunny who should prove himself

Most timid in the land.

Next day a proclamation

Was posted in the wood

“To the Flower of Timidity,

The Pick of Bunnyhood:

His Majesty the Bunny king,

Commands you to appear

At a tournament—at such a date

In such and such a year—

Where his Majesty will then bestow

Princess Bunita’s hand

On the Bunny who will prove himself

Most timid in the land.”

Then every timid Bunny’s heart

Swelled with exultant fright

At the thought of doughty deeds of fear

And prodigies of flight.

For the motto of the Bunnies

As perhaps you are aware,

Is “Only the faint-hearted

Are deserving of the fair.”

They fell at once to practising,

These Bunnies, one and all,

Till some could almost die of fright

To hear a petal fall.

And one enterprising Bunny

Got up a special class

To teach the art of fainting

At your shadow on the grass.

At length—at length—at length

The moment is at hand!

And trembling all from head to foot

A hundred Bunnies stand.

And a hundred Bunny mothers

With anxiety turn gray

Lest their offspring dear should lose their fear

And linger in the fray.

Never before in Bunny lore

Was such a stirring sight

As when the bugle sounded

To begin the glorious flight!

A hundred Bunnies, like a flash,

All disappeared from sight

Like arrows from a hundred bows—

None swerved to left or right.

Some north, some south, some east, some west,—

And none of them, ’t is plain,

Till he has gone around the earth

Will e’er be seen again.

It may be in a hundred weeks,

Perchance a hundred years.

Whenever it may be, ’t is plain

The one who first appears

Is the one who ran the fastest;

He wins the Princess’ hand,

And gains the glorious title of

“Most Timid in the Land.”

The flowers in the dell

Once gave a circus show;

And as I know them well,

They asked if I would go

As their especial guest.

“Quite charmed!” said I, and so

Put on my very best

Frock-coat and shiny hat,

And my embroidered vest

And wonderful cravat;

In fact, no end of style,

For it is, as you know,

But once in a great while

The flowers give a show.

They gave me a front seat,

The very nicest there—

A bank of violets sweet

And moss and maidenhair.

’T was going to be a treat—

I felt it in the air.

As martial music crashed

From a trained trumpet-vine,

Into the ring there dashed

A beauteous columbine!

With airy grace she strode

Her wild horse-chestnut steed.

I held my breath, she rode

With such terrific speed.

They brought a cobweb ring,

And lightly she jumped through it.

(A very dangerous thing;

How did she learn to do it?)

I cried, “Brava! Encore!”

Until she’d jumped through nine,

Each higher than before.

(I tell you, it was fine!)

Then Jack-in-pulpit—who

From out his lofty place

Announced what each would do—

Cried, “Next there comes a race.”

Two Scarlet Runners flew

Three times the ring around,

And with a crown of dew

The winner’s head was crowned.

A booby race, for fun,

Came next (the prize was cheaper).

Trailing Arbutus won

Over Virginia Creeper.

Then came the world-famed six,

The Johnny-jump-up Brothers,

Who did amazing tricks,

Each funnier than the others.

A Spider, in mid-air

(Engaged at great expense),

On tight-thread gossamer

Danced with a skill immense!

A dashing young Green Blade

Who quickly followed suit,

An exhibition made

Of how young blades can shoot.

There were Harebell ringers, too,

Who played delightful tunes,

And trained Dog-violets, who

Did antics, like buffoons.

All these and more were there—

Too many for narration;

But nothing could compare

With the last “Great Sensation.”

I never shall forget,

Though I should live an age,

The sight of Mignonette

Within the Lion’s cage.

Sweet smiling Mignonette!

Not one bit scared—for why on

Earth should she fear her pet,

Her dear, tame Dandelion?

“They know full well that it is he—

The Sun—who always follows me.

I turn away my head until

I fear my stalk will break; and still

He tags along from morn till night,

Starting as soon as it is light,

And never takes his eyes off me

Until it is too dark to see!

They really ought to be ashamed.

Soon they’ll be saying I was named

For him, when well they know ’t was he

Who took the name of Sun from me.”

The Sunflower paused, with anger dumb.

The Bee said naught, but murmured, “H’m!”

’T was very evident that he

Was much impressed—this Bumblebee.

He spread his wings at once and flew

To tell some other bees he knew,

Who, being also much impressed,

Said, “H’m!” and flew to tell the rest.

And now if you should chance to see,

In field or grove, a Bumblebee,

And hear him murmur, “H’m!” then you

Will know what he’s alluding to.

They loved—but alas! to agree

Their parents they could n’t persuade.

An Enchanter and Wizard, you see,

Were natural 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 coupé;

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 which, by the way,

Their parents provided the stone.

Then the parents relented? Oh, no!

They pursued with the fury of brutes,

But arrived just too 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).

Ye 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 hall,

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.

Why and Wherefore set one day

To hunt for a wild Negation.

They agreed to meet at a cool retreat

On the Point of Interrogation.

But the night was dark and they missed their mark,

And, driven well-nigh to distraction,

They lost their ways in a murky maze

Of utter abstruse abstraction.

Then they took a boat and were soon afloat

On a sea of Speculation,

But the sea grew rough, and their boat, though tough,

Was split into an Equation.

As they floundered about in the waves of doubt

Rose a fearful Hypothesis,

Who gibbered with glee as they sank in the sea,

And the last they saw was this:

On a rock-bound reef of Unbelief

There sat the wild Negation;

Then they sank once more and were washed ashore

At the Point of Interrogation.

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 should n’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.

The very thought filled him with shame.

“No, I will simply change my name,”

Said he, “and go just as I am,

And call myself a Woolly Lamb.”

And so he did, and as you’ll guess,

He had a measure of success.

Disguised in name alone, he yet

Took in ’most every one he met.

The first was Mister Wolf, who said,

“Your Majesty—” “Off with his head!”

The angry monarch roared. “I am,

I’d have you know, a Woolly Lamb.”

Then Mistress Lamb, who, being near,

Had heard, addressed him: “Brother dear—”

“Odds cats!” the lion roared. “My word!

Such insolence I never heard!”

His rage was a terrific sight

(It almost spoiled his appetite).

And so it went, until one day

He met Sir Fox, who stopped to say

(Keeping just far enough away,

Yet in a casual, off-hand way,

As if he did n’t care a fig),

“Good-morning to you, Thingumjig.”

To-day we think it infra dig,

To use such words as Thing um jig;

But what is now a vulgar word

In those days never had been heard.

Sir Fox himself invented it

This great emergency to fit.

Of course he was not going to show

There was a word he did not know.

He bowed, and with his haughtiest air

Resumed his walk; but everywhere

He went his subjects, small and big,

Took up the cry of Thingumjig.

It followed him where’er he went;

He did n’t dare his rage to vent.

Suppose it were a compliment?

His anger then would only show

Here was a word he did not know!

The only course for him ’t was clear,

Was to pretend he did not hear.

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 could n’t find it!

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!

“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 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

’T will 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

I thought it first!

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 ’t would 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.

Whenas 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, “So’s mine.”

“My Love is wondrous proud,

And her name is Geraldyne.”

“Thou liest!” shrieked aloud

The other. “She is 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.”

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 Faire

Her silver weddyng daye.

As I sit, inanely staring

In the Gas-log’s lambent flame,

Far away my fancy’s faring

To a land without a name,—

To the country of Invention,

Where I roam in ecstasy,

Where all things are mere pretension,

Nothing what it seems to be.

Folded in a calm serenic,

On a jute-bank I recline,

Where, mid moss of hue arsenic,

Millinery flowers entwine.

Cambric blooms—glass-dew beshowered,

Gay with colors aniline,

Ever eagerly devoured

By the mild, condensed milch kine.

Now the scene idyllic changes

From the meadows aniline,

And my faltering fancy ranges

Down a dismal, deep decline,

Scene of some age past upheaval,

Where no foot of man has fared,

To a Gas-log grove primeval,

Where I find me, mute, and scared

Of—I know not—Goblins, Banshees,

And the ancient Gas-trees toss

Gnarled and flickering giant branches,

Hoary with asbestos moss.

Now I come to where are waving

Painted palms, precisely planned,

Rearing trunks of cocoa shaving,

By electric zephyrs fanned,

Soothing me with sound seraphic

Till I sink into a swoon,

Dreaming cineomatographic

Dreams beneath an arc-light moon.

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.

The air was full of shouts and cries,

Of shrill “Ha-ha’s,” and “Ho’s,” and “Hi’s,”

And every kind of whistle,

And the sky was dark with flying things—

Golf-sticks, balls, engagement-rings,

Novels, rackets, and billiard-cues,

Cameras, fishing-rods, and shoes,

And every sort of missile.

The ground was black with a seething mass

Of people of every kind and class—

Matrons, men, and misses,

Ladies and gentlemen, old and new,

Lads and lasses, and children too,

Elderly men with elderly wives—

Hustling and bustling for their lives.

“I wonder what all this is?”

Said I: “I fear that it may be

Another case for the S. P. C.

’T will bear investigation.”

I dropped my book and joined the race,

And struggling into the foremost place,

Behold, the object of the chase

Was an aged man with wrinkled face!

I was filled with indignation.

His frame was bent and his knees aknock,

His head was bald but for one lock,

And I cried with anger thrilling,

“This thing must stop; ’t is a disgrace

An aged gentleman to chase.”

Then everybody laughed in my face.

“This,” they cried, “is a different case;

It’s only ‘Time’ we’re killing.”

Then it was I observed two things

That grew from his shoulders—two big wings!

And I joined in the people’s laughter.

Tho’ killing is often out of place,

A circumstance may alter a case.

So I took my pad and pencil-case,

And for want of a missile, in its place

I tossed these verses after.

She flattered it and battered it

And she filled it full of gall;

Yet had I Twenty Hundred Hearts,

Still should she have them all.

A lady on the lonely shore

Of a dull watering place

Once met a Tigress weeping sore,

Tears streaming down her face.

And knowing well that safety lay

In not betraying fear,

She asked in quite a friendly way,

“What makes you weep, my dear?”

The Tigress brushed a tear aside;

“I want a man!” she wailed.

“A man! they’re scarce!” the lady cried;

“I fear the crop has failed!

There is but one in miles, and oh,

I fear that he is wed!”

The Tigress smiled. “I am, you know,

A man eater,” she said.

“You eat them!” cried the maid, then ceased

In horror and amaze,

Then sat her down to show the beast

The error of her ways.

“Men are so scarce,” she urged, “I fear

There are n’t enough to go

Around—now is it right, my dear,

That you should waste them so?

I weep to think of all the men

You’ve spoiled ere now,” said she.

“And if you eat the rest, why, then

What will be left for me?”

The hours flew by; she took no rest

Till twilight, when at last

The contrite beast with sobs confessed

Repentance for the past.

“Go,” said the maid, “take my advice;

I know what’s best for you;

It’s cheap and filling at the price;

Go seek the oyster stew!”

The Tigress lies unto this day

Upon an oyster bed.

The Lady—so the gossips say—

Is shortly to be wed.

Two ladies, not real ladies (no offence—

I don’t mean “not real ladies” in that sense),

But pictured fancies they—who dwelt between

The pages of a weekly magazine.

Though often in the selfsame week they met,

They were n’t exactly in the selfsame set,

And could not know each other. One, I think,

Was done in wash; the other, pen and ink.

The wash lady (again there’s no offence—

I use “wash” in its pure artistic sense)

Was a brunette, vivacious, charming wholly;

Neither too slim, nor yet too rolly-poly.

A dazzling smile had this enchanting creature;

Indeed, her most predominating feature

Was a continuous show of glittering pearl;

And on her forehead hung a little curl—

A most distracting little curl; and last,

She had a very slight Hebraic cast.

Gray eyes the other had, serene and clear;

A cold and distant manner; yet I fear

Her looks belied her, for she oft was seen

Lounging about the beach, or ’mid the green,

Of the conservatory’s dim retreat,

Always some chappie nestling at her feet.

A first-rate fellow she, and looked her best

When in a golf or walking costume dressed;

In short, the other’s opposite in all,

And fearfully and wonderfully tall.

One day, by chance, each occupied a place

On the same page, exactly face to face,

In such a way ’t was possible no more

For either one the other to ignore.

Then in an instant burst into a flame

The fire that had been smouldering.

“How came

You here?” they both exclaimed, as with one voice.

(Here I use asterisks, though not from choice

But type has limits, and must play the dunce;

When two young ladies both converse at once.)

**—!—***?**!!!!!!*****!!***??——

—!!*********!!-----!——!-----***

***—!!!!!——!—!—!!

I left them to their scenes.

Next day I found the page in smithereens,

And I reflected, “It is very sad

That two nice girls should get so awfully mad

About a thing for which, had they but known,

Two artists were responsible alone.”

O Wolf, 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.

In all the Eastern hemisphere

You would n’t find a knight, a peer,

A viscount, earl or baronet,

A marquis or a duke, nor yet

A prince, or emperor, or king,

Or sultan, czar, or anything

That could in family pride surpass

J. Wentworth Beane of Boston, Mass.

His family tree could far outscale

The bean-stalk in the fairy tale;

And Joseph’s coat would pale before

The blazon’d coat-of-arms he bore,

The arms of his old ancestor,

One Godfrey Beane, “who crossed, you know,

About two hundred years ago.”

He had it stamped, engraved, embossed,

Without the least regard to cost,

Upon his house, upon his gate,

Upon his table-cloth, his plate,

Upon his knocker, and his mat,

Upon his watch, inside his hat;

On scarf-pin, handkerchief, and screen,

And cards; in short, J. Wentworth Beane

Contrived to have old Godfrey’s crest

On everything that he possessed.

And lastly, when he died, his will

Proved to contain a codicil

Directing that a sum be spent

To carve it on his monument.

But if you think this ends the scene

You little know J. Wentworth Beane.

To judge him by the common host

Is reckoning without his ghost.

And it is something that befell

His ghost I chiefly have to tell.

At midnight of the very day

They laid J. Wentworth Beane away,

No sooner had the clock come round

To 12 P. M. than from the ground

Arose a spectre, lank and lean,

With frigid air and haughty mien;

No other than J. Wentworth Beane,

Unchanged in all, except his pride—

If anything, intensified.

He looked about him with that air

Of supercilious despair

That very stuck-up people wear

At some society affair

When no one in their set is there.

Then, after brushing from his sleeves

Some bits of mould and clinging leaves,

And lightly dusting off his shoe,

The iron gate he floated through,

Just looking back the clock to note,

As one who fears to miss a boat.

Ten minutes later found him on

The ghost’s Cunarder—“Oregon;”

And ten days later by spook time

He heard the hour of midnight chime

From out the tower of Beanley Hall,

And stood within the grave-yard wall

Beside a stone, moss-grown and green,

On which these simple words were seen:

The while he gazed in thought serene

A little ghost of humble mien,

Unkempt and crooked, bent and spare,

Accosted him with cringing air:

“Most noble sir, ’t is plain to see

You are not of the likes of me;

You are a spook of high degree.”

“My good man,” cried J. Wentworth B.,

“Leave me a little while, I pray,

I’ve travelled very far to-day,

And I desire to be alone

With him who sleeps beneath this stone.

I cannot rest till I have seen

My ancestor, Sir Godfrey Beane.”

“Your ancestor! How can that be?”

Exclaimed the little ghost, “when he,

Last of his line, was drowned at sea

Two hundred years ago; this stone

Is to his memory alone.

I, and I only, saw his end.

As he, my master and my friend,

Leaned o’er the vessel’s side one night

I pushed him—no, it was not right,

I own that I was much to blame;

I donned his clothes, and took the name

Of Beane—I also took his gold,

About five thousand pounds all told;

And so to Boston, Mass., I came

To found a family and name—

I, who in former times had been

Sir Godfrey’s—”

“Wretch, what do you mean!

Sir Godfrey’s what?” gasped Wentworth Beane.

“Sir Godfrey’s valet!”

That same night,

When the ghost steamer sailed, you might

Among the passengers have seen

A ghost of very abject mien,

Faded and shrunk, forlorn and frayed,

The shadow of his former shade,

Who registered in steerage class,

J. W. Beane of Boston, Mass.

Now, gentle reader, do not try

To guess the family which I

Disguise as Beane—enough that they

Exist on Beacon Hill to-day,

In sweet enjoyment of their claims—

It is not well to mention names.