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Title: The Laughing Willow

Author: Oliver Herford

Release date: January 11, 2018 [eBook #56357]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by David Edwards, John Campbell and the Online

Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This

file was produced from images generously made available

by The Internet Archive)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LAUGHING WILLOW ***

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE

Some minor changes are noted at the end of the book.

THE LAUGHING WILLOW

OLIVER HERFORD

Apropos de Rien

THE

LAUGHING WILLOW

VERSES AND PICTURES

BY

OLIVER HERFORD

Author of “Artful Antics,” “The Child’s Primer of Natural

History,” “Overheard in a Garden,” “Fairy Godmother-in-Law,”

“Astonishing Tale of a Pen and Ink

Puppet,” “The Confessions of a

Caricaturist,” etc.

NEW YORK

GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY

Copyright, 1918,

By George H. Doran Company

Printed in the United States of America

TO PEG

Oh, should some power the giftie gie her

To see hersel’ as ithers see her,

I’m thinking Peg would grow sae vain

He’d take the giftie back again.

CONTENTS

THE LAUGHING  WILLOW

PAGE

EPITAPHS

9

THE TRUTH ABOUT RUSSIA

11

THE WEDDING FEAST

11

A MUJIK

12

THE COSSACK

13

THE THREE S’S

14

THE AIR RAID

15

VALE DIABOLE

18

THE WRONG FLOOR

21

MARCHING TO BERLIN

23

TARGET PRACTICE

26

THE SAUSAGE BALLOON

27

CONCERNING THE CROWN PRINCE

28

CAMOUFLAGE

31

THE TANK

32

THE BIRD-MAN

33

FRENZYLOGICAL CHART

34

BRITANNIA SALVATRIX

35

FATHER WILHELM

37

THE TOUCHING BALLAD OF GENERAL VON BEERS

40

AN IMPERIAL SNEEZE

45

THE RUBAIYAT OF BILLI KAISAM

52

WAR RELIEF

57

SUMMER MASS

58

ABOUT PEOPLE I HAVE  MET

J. M. BARRIE

61

THE HORSE

63

THE TOWN CAT

65

TOWSER

68

THE OYSTER

70

THE MOUSE

71

PEOPLE I HAVE NOT  MET

THE TURTLE

77

MICHAEL O’LEARY

79

CLORINDA

82

ALCIBIADES J. SKINNER

85

EVE

90

T HE HIGHBROW HEN

91

SIR IPPYKIN

92

THE PSYCHOLOGY COP

95

PHYLLIS LEE

97

MRS. SEYMOUR FENTOLIN

99

THE DEVIL AMONG THE LADIES

101

SPRING

105

THE CATFISH

108

THE PRODIGAL CENTIPEDE

109

A BALLADE OF BLACK SOCKS

111

OTHER PEOPLE INCLUDING MARK  TWAIN

THE GENTLEMEN OF LETTERS

115

THE WOMEN OF THE BETTER CLASS

118

MARK TWAIN

121

PRINCE POMPOM

124

THE SERIAL

126

THE CLOUD

130

THE LAUGHING WILLOW

To see the Kaiser’s epitaph

Would make a weeping willow laugh.

THE LAUGHING WILLOW

EPITAPHS

Willy Nilly

Here lies Willy’s mortal clay

In its Mother Earth’s caresses.

Willy’s soul has flown away—

Where it is you have two guesses.

Here lies Bill

Here lies Bill, the son of Fred.

He lied alive; he now lies dead.

Tears, Idle Tears

Oh, stranger, dry the starting tear!

Kaiser Bill is buried here.

Pax

’Neath this stone lies Kaiser Bill.

He sought for peace—he seeks it still.

Requiescat

Here Wilhelm sleeps. For Mercy’s sake,

Tread softly, friend, lest he should wake!

Ashes to Ashes

Swallow him, O Earth, for he,

Did his best to swallow thee.

THE TRUTH ABOUT RUSSIA

THE WEDDING FEAST

This is a Russian Wedding Feast;

Counting the Groom, there are at least

A hundred sitting down to dine,

Or let us call it ninety-nine:

For more than that there is no room,

And no one ever counts the Groom!

A MUJIK

The Mujik wears a costume weird

Consisting of a fuzzy beard,

A sheep-skin blouse (the wool inside)

And breeks astonishingly wide,

Made from the fur of North sea Whales,

And Yak-hide boots with big brass nails.

THE COSSACK

The Cossack is so much at home

Upon his horse, that though he roam

From Vladivostok to Odessa,

His wife has only to address a

Letter to Ivan “care his Horse”

To catch her Spouse, unless of course,

As sometimes happens, Ivan may

Have swapped addresses on the way.

THE THREE S’S

Without a doubt the Samovar

The Steppes and Russian Sables are

Of all things Russian the best known;

So in this picture I have shown

A Sable sitting on a flight

Of Russian Steppes, before a bright

New Samovar, calm as can be,

Brewing a cup of Russian Tea.

THE AIR RAID

I

Come into the cellar, Maud.

Get a move on! Goodness gracious,

There is nothing to applaud

In bravado ostentatious!

Still Maud lingered, all unheeding,

As the Siren sounded twice;

Above the din her voice came pleading,

“Are you sure there’s no mice?”

II

Above the pandemonium

Of Siren shrill and warning Drum

And Aircraft Gun is heard the roar

Of little Freddy, ætat four;

The cellar dark and dank and dim

No fascination has for him,

The little darling wants to be

Upstairs upon the roof and see

The “fireworks!” “If you ask me—”

Aunt Kate was overheard to say,

“I’d let the dear child have his way!”

III

A hidden Crime, however slight,

Is sure some day to see the light;

Oh, why did Auntie come to stay

With us upon an Air-raid day!

Why did we never think to tell her

That there were Lizards in the cellar

Or Spiders or an Open Drain!

How shall we ever now explain

That “Antique Vase” we said was lost,

That Nile green horror, gold embossed,

Her Wedding Present—there it lay

Before her eyes, as plain as day!

We almost wished a bomb would fall

Upon the house and end it all!

IV

Who is that cowardly Jack Horner

Crouching there in the darkest corner,

Behind the furnace? Look again,

That is no cringing coward, when

Your eyes become accustomed to

The darkness of the cellar, you

Will see it is no other than

Philander Jones and Marian;

Make no mistake, Philander’s dread

Is not a Zeppelin overhead,

But that rude moment when he’ll hear

The beastly Siren sound “All’s clear!”

V

“Where is Molly?” Like a Shell,

Short and sharp, the question fell,

Scattering every one pell mell

From the cellar’s safe retreat

Through the house on panic feet,

Basement, Attic—everywhere

They sought, one hope remained and there

On the Drying-roof they found her,

Shrapnel flashing all around her,

Calm and cool ’mid war’s alarms,

Hugging something in her arms.

“I’s all right—don’t cwy!” said Molly,

“I tame back to det my dolly!”

VALE DIABOLE

At a recent church conference it was decided to drop the Devil from the ritual.

Well! Well! so you’ve been fired,

You’ve lost your job at last.

It’s high time you retired,

Old Boy, you’re failing fast.

You’re getting old, you know it,

You are not in the race.

Admit you cannot go it,

The killing, modern pace.

Your methods are too dull for

The modern school of Hate,

Your lake of burning sulphur

Is sadly out of date.

The Hohenzollern’s Kultur

Mocks at your fiery pits,

His double-headed vulture

Has put yours on the fritz.

Beside the fierce, blaspheming,

Mail-fisted Kaiser Bill,

You are a seraph beaming,

An angel of good-will.

But tho’ we can’t deny, sir,

You’re hopelessly outclassed,

You’ve one thing on the Kaiser,

Which is, tho’ first and last

A failure as a devil,

Yet boast of this you can:

You were always on the level—

And—you are a gentleman!

THE WRONG FLOOR

A certain Emperor

(This is a censored tale)

Once pounded on the door

Of heaven with fist of mail.

Cried Peter from within,

Awakened by the row,

“Stop that infernal din!

Who are you, anyhow?”

“Don’t bandy words with me!”

Thundered the visitor.

“All doors to me are free.

I am the Emperor.”

“If you’re an Emperor,”

Said Peter, “then I fear

You’ve come to the wrong floor.

We take no Emperors here.

“Our waiting list is filled

With martyrs brave and true

Whose blood an Emperor spilled.

There is no room for you.”

Cowed by Saint Peter’s look,

The Emperor, with a frown,

Cried, “Well, I’m damned!” and took

The elevator—down.

MARCHING TO BERLIN

We come from God’s own country in the ships of Uncle Sam;

We’re going to get the william-goat of Kaiser Will—i—am;

We know it is verboten, but we do not give a damn,

As we go marching to Berlin!

(Drums) Berlin! Berlin!

Berlin! Berlin! Berlin!

As we go marching to Berlin!

Refrain

Hurray! Hurray! We’ll wave the Stripes and Stars!

Away, away with Emperors and Czars!

And when we get the Kaiser we’ll put him behind the bars,

As we go marching to Berlin!

(Drums) Berlin! Berlin! etc.

We’re from the dear old U. S. A., the Land of Liberty;

We’ve crossed a hundred rivers and three thousand miles of sea

To teach the Huns a thing or two about Democracy,

As we go marching to Berlin!

(Drums) Berlin! Berlin! etc.

Refrain

Hurray! Hurray! We’ll show the Prussian swine

That Freedom is the only Right Divine,

And when we catch old Kaiser Bill we’ll pitch him in the Rhine,

As we go marching to Berlin!

(Drums) Berlin! Berlin! etc.

We’ve left our happy homes that we may help to win the war.

We’re a million strong already, and there’ll soon be millions more;

And when the job is done with Kaiser Bill we’ll mop the floor,

As we go marching to Berlin!

(Drums) Berlin! Berlin! etc.

Refrain

Hurray! Hurray! We’re going to make it hot

For all the bloody Hohenzollern lot,

And when we get the Kaiser we’ll present him to his Gott,

As we go marching to Berlin!

(Drums) Berlin! Berlin!

Berlin! Berlin! Berlin!

As we go marching to Berlin!

TARGET PRACTICE

At the Imperial Schützenfest

Fritz Pickelheim led all the rest;

At target practice Pickelheim

Could hit the Red Cross every time;

At the clay-baby contest Fritz

Scored nineteen out of twenty hits;

And once he won the Kaiser’s purse

With nine live babies and a nurse.

THE SAUSAGE BALLOON

I often wonder, when we fry

A Sausage, if its thoughts can fly

Across the billowy ocean wave

To where its namesake stern and brave

Floats like a Guardian Angel, high

Above our armies, in the sky,

Serene and stately as a cloud.

No wonder Sausages are proud!

No wonder Sausages when fried

Oft-times swell up and burst with pride!

CONCERNING THE CROWN PRINCE

I

When Crown Prince Willy goes to bed

It is his wont to lay his head

Upon the pillow and extend

His feet towards the other end.

“But does he really wear his hat

In bed?” you ask—well, as to that

I cannot say, I never saw him,

But that’s the way I always draw him.

II

The thing that Germans most admire

Is Crownie’s coolness under fire.

He loves to watch it gleam and glow

’Mid fragrant smoke, an inch or so

Above his nose as he reclines

In some Château behind the lines;

If the Crown Prince had his desire

He would be always under fire!

III

When you or I get up at eight

We do not have to cogitate

And rack our brains concerning just

Which suit to wear, as Princes must;

The Crown Prince has a hundred suits,

Including hats and belts and boots,

Yet such his master-mind, he knows

Which he must wear and just what goes

With what, which chevron, sash or sword,

Each in his Royal Head is stored,

Down to the detail of a spur,

All in a Nut-shell, as it were!

IV

Here is a most uncensored sight!

The Prince, in garb Pre-Adamite

Taking (but tell it not in Gath)

A good old English shower-bath!

V

The Prince’s shy and shrinking habit

Has earned for him the nickname “Rabbit.”

This irritates His Highness more

Than all his country’s grief and gore,

It hurts his amour propre, for it’s

A clear case of the “Cap that fits.”

But don’t you think, however funny,

It’s rather rough upon the Bunny?

CAMOUFLAGE

If you can stand upon one spot

And look like something you are not

And wouldn’t if you could be—say

A Bean-bag or a Bale of Hay—

You’ll find it quite a useful stunt

To practise on the Western Front;

This picture shows how Private Dunne,

Disguised as snow, deceived the Hun,

Who could not possibly see through

The Camouflage: no more can you!

THE TANK

The Tank’s a kind of cross between

An Agricultural Machine

And something fierce and Pliocene;

Over embankments, trees, and walls,

Trenches, barbed-wire, and forts it crawls;

Nothing can stay its course—the Tank

Has not the least respect for Rank

Or File; with equal joy it squashes

All things alike, men, beasts, and—Boches.

THE BIRD-MAN

The Bird-man does not chirp and sing

As Larks and Robins do in Spring,

He does not moult nor does he feed

On Earthworms or Canary-seed,

Nor does the Bird-man build a nest

In which his weary wings to rest;

At night, instead, when he goes home

To roost, he seeks an Aërodrome.

FRENZYLOGICAL CHART

1. Humanity.

6. Generosity.

2. Veneration.

7. Compassion.

3. Love of Nature.

8. Sympathy.

4. Modesty.

9. Chivalry.

5. Imagination.

10. Integrity.

11. Love of Children.

BRITANNIA SALVATRIX

Mistress of the Trident dread,

With the brow of Artemis,

Like Minerva, helmeted,

Seven Seas her sandals kiss.

Throbs a mighty heart withal

Beneath her armour of Disdain.

Not for naught did Belgium call,

Servia has not cried in vain.

When the gauge of Hate was hurled,

Seven seas at her behest,

From the corners of the world

Brought the bravest and the best.

From the utmost ends of earth,

On their tireless waves they bore,

To the Europe of their birth,

Legions of the land and air,

Spurning Peace, till Peace has brought

Hohenzollern to his fall,

And with the blood of Freemen bought

A Place in Freedom’s Sun for all.

FATHER WILHELM

To the Tune of Lewis Carroll

“You are old, Father Wilhelm,” the Crown Prince said,

“And the hair’s growing thin on your pate;

Do you think you are perfectly right in your head—

The way you’ve been acting of late?”

“In my youth,” Father Wilhelm replied to his son,

“I hated my honour to stain

But, now that I’m perfectly sure I have none,

Why, I do it again and again.”

“You are old,” said the Prince, “and you’re getting quite bent,

And rheumatic, yet only just now,

You turned a back somersault into your tent—

Pray why did you do it, and how?”

“In my youth,” Kaiser Wilhelm replied to the Prince,

“I kept all my muscles in training;

And I’ve practised one thing that I learned, ever since—

And that’s to go in when it’s raining.”

“You are old,” said the Prince, “and your head is too light

For anything stronger than water;

Yet you talk without ceasing from morning till night;

Do you think, at your age, that you oughter?”

“In my youth,” said the Kaiser, “I lived upon raw

Spanish onions, I ate with my knife;

And the strength that those onions gave to my jaw

Has lasted the rest of my life.”

“You are old,” said the Kronprins, “and one would suppose,

You would be just a little more humble;

Yet you balance your crown on the end of your nose.

Aren’t you frightened some day it will tumble?”

“Your questions, my boy, are getting too free,”

The Kaiser with anger protested—

“Your impudence borders on Lésé Majesté;

Be off, or I’ll have you arrested.”

THE TOUCHING BALLAD OF GENERAL VON BEERS

To the Tune of W. S. Gilbert

Major Fritz-Schinkenwurst Hofbrau Von Beers

Was the pride and the joy of the Pruss Grenadiers.

You’ve guessed him a Prussian, shrewd reader, at sight,

And a glance at his manners will prove you are right.

In his fervour for “Frightfulness” Major Von Beers

Acknowledged no betters and precious few peers.

And every one envied his well-earned repute

For arson and pillage and rapine and loot.

No symphony held such delectable tones

For the ears of Von Beers as the shrieks and the groans

Of women and children bombarded with shell,

Or the crash of a hospital tumbling pell-mell.

One day from Berlin came the order “Refrain

For the present from Frightfulness. Start Press Campaign.

Von Bernstorff has wired we’re getting in wrong

With the Yankees, so play up HUMANITY strong.”

Loud, loud were the wailings of Hofbrau Von Beers.

But duty is duty, so drying his tears,

He purchased a volume by Peter F. Dunne

On “How to be Civilised, though you’re a Hun.”

He swatted up Honour, and Peace and Good-will

For a year seven months and a fortnight until,

You’ll scarcely believe it, that Hun I declare

Acquired a sort of a civilised air.

It was balky, spasmodic and apt to take flight

When a press correspondent was nowhere in sight.

It was clumsy, uncertain and crude, I’m aware,

Yet distinctly suggested a civilised air.

He started at once a colossal campaign

And filled correspondents with fibs and champagne,

And the press correspondents all voted Von Beers

A prince of good fellows, ’mid deafening cheers.

Thenceforth when a soldier forgot to salute,

Von Beers would use kindness instead of his boot.

And he lectured a laggard he’d rather have shot,

If a newspaper man chanced to be on the spot.

If a sentinel, smoking, he happened to catch,

Instead of a hiding he gave him a match.

A caress took the place of a clout on the ear,

That is, when a war correspondent was near.

He distributed photos of Godfearing Huns

Feeding babies with Beef Broth, Bananas and Buns,

And snapshots of Willie that caught his gay glance

And others depicting him weeping for France.

The fame of Von Hofbrau spread over the land,

And rich Lady nurses proposed for his hand,

And the Kaiser, All Highest, ’mid deafening tears

Pinned a cast-iron Halo on Major Von Beers.

AN IMPERIAL SNEEZE

A Sniffle in One Act

CHARACTERS

The GERMAN EMPEROR ...

Others not to be mentioned in the same cast.

SCENE

A luxurious dressing room adjoining the Emperor’s Bedroom.

TIME

This morning. The Emperor is discovered standing before a Cheval Glass. He is dressed in what is known as “Athletic Underwear,” with plain black socks, upheld by Boston Garters.

EMPEROR:

It is not often that one sees

An Emperor in B. V. D.’s.

A knock is heard on the door.

EMPEROR:

Herein!

A high officer enters with a telegram.

A wire?

OFFICER:

Yes, Sire, a wire!

EMPEROR: Tears open envelope.

You may retire.

Reads

Von Hindenburg has wired to say

Our noble troops have won the day

Captured a Russian Samovar

And several tons of caviar

Vodka a fabulous amount

And Droskys more than we can count

The greatest battle of the war,

Won by the Fourteenth Army Corps

All honour to the Lord therefore,

Likewise the Fourteenth Army Corps.

CHORUS OF OFFICERS:

All honour to the Lord therefore,

Not to speak of the Fourteenth Army Corps.

EMPEROR:

The Lord Be Praised! This cheering news

Will cure my cold and banish my blues.

I haven’t felt anything like so well

Since my gallant Navy with shot and shell

Bombarded the Scarborough Infant School

And the Orphan Asylum at Hartlepool.

CHORUS OF OFFICERS:

He hasn’t felt anything like so well

Since the Babes were bombarded with shot and shell.

EMPEROR:

Enough! Enough! Less cheering please

With my nervous system it disagrees.

Alas! My joy

Is not without alloy.

Looks at telegram sadly.

Oh wretched me! On this glorious day

When I should have been in the thick of the fray

I lay in bed

With a cold in my head:

Hot water bottles, Quinine and Squills

Mustard Plasters, and Camphor Pills.

And when they tell of this victory

They do not so much as mention ME!

While peans of praise and plaudits pour

On the Lord—and the Fourteenth Army Corps!

Weeps.

Enter chorus of Highborn Lady Nurses bearing clinical thermometers.

FIRST NURSE:

Oh Sire we entreat!

SECOND NURSE:

This is most indiscreet!

THIRD NURSE:

A temperature we dread—

FOURTH NURSE:

Oh please go back to bed—

FIRST NURSE:

Please do as you are told,

You have an awful cold.

EMPEROR: Furious.

A cold!!

NURSE:

I meant to say

Broncho-Pneumonia.

EMPEROR:

Mine was no common plebeian ill,

’Twas a Pneumo-Psycho-Bronchial chill

According to my medical adviser

I caught it when I walked upon the Yser.

NURSE:

You walked!

EMPEROR:

I should have said I tried—

You see it was high tide

And I was much annoyed

To find the bridge destroyed.

But never at a loss

I tried to walk across.

Angrily

But by the Eternal One

I swear it can’t be done

And never was——

Stops suddenly and makes as if about to sneeze.

Nurses regard him apprehensively.

Emperor sneezes.

FIRST NURSE:

Ach! Himmel! what a sneeze!

SECOND NURSE:

Oh Sire! Please!——

THIRD NURSE:

Oh please!

FOURTH NURSE:

Your cold’s gone to your head!

ALL TOGETHER:

You MUST go back to bed!

They seize the Emperor and pull him, struggling, through the door leading to the bedroom.

EMPEROR:

Nein! Nein! Unhand me, wenches!

My place is in the trenches.

Enter High Officer.

HIGH OFFICER: Looks about him cautiously.

’Tis an ill wind they say

That profits nobody,

And this Imperial sneeze

May bring us victories,

With Him in bed there’ll be

Some chance for strategy.

If on the other hand——

EMPEROR: Heard off stage

What ho! My horse!

The Emperor enters

HIGH OFFICER: Anxiously

You go?

EMPEROR: Haughtily

Of course!

CURTAIN

THE RUBAIYAT OF BILLI KAISAM

Surnamed the Tentbreaker

I

Ah, Franz! Could you and I with Gott conspire

To grab this sorry little globe entire,

Would we not shatter it to bits, and then

Remould it nearer to our heart’s desire?

II

You all know how, the world to overwhelm

I made a second Sparta of my realm

And “dropped the Pilot” from my ship of State

To lay my own mailed fist upon the helm.

III

And how myself did eagerly frequent

Councils of war and heard great argument

About it and about, and every year

Came out with great and greater armament.

IV

For though in ME and MINE I set great store

And THEE and THINE are terms that I abhor,

Of all that one should care to fathom, I

Was never deep in anything but—war.

V

Bernhardi, Nietzsche, Treitschke, who discussed

Of the “Next War,” so wisely, they are thrust

Like foolish prophets forth, their words to scorn

Are scattered and their mouths are stopped with dust.

VI

With them the seed of warfare did I sow,

And with mine own hand wrought to make it grow.

And this is all the Harvest I have reaped:

“I came like thunder—and like wind I go!”

VII

And lately from Hell’s Cavern Door rose up

A shape Titanic, ravening to sup

On Living Human Fodder, and he bade

Me give him taste of it; and ’twas—The Krupp.

VIII

The Krupp that can with Logic absolute

The plans of modern Strategists confute

The steel iconoclast that in a trice

The strongest Fortress into Dust transmute.

IX

The Krupp no question makes of Aye and No,

But strikes alike Cathedral or Château

And I who send it out into the Field—

I know about it all—I know—I know!

X

And much as War has made an infidel

Of me, and robbed me of my honour, well

I often wonder what the Devil has

One half so devilish as I—In Hell!

XI

Ah, but my innovations people say

Placed war upon a sounder basis? Nay,

’Twas only striking from War’s lexicon

The terms TRUTH, HONOUR, DECENCY, FAIR PLAY.

XII

The Treaties that I set my seal upon

Are turned to dust and ashes, which anon

Like snowflakes falling in a muddy street

Lighting a little hour or two are gone.

XIII

What if my sword can fling the Sheath aside

And naked plunge into the crimson tide,

Were’t not a shame, were’t not a shame for me,

By a “mere scrap of paper” to abide?

XIV

Indeed, indeed, continually I swore

For Peace—but was I solemn when I swore?

And then—then came the Day and sword in hand

My threadbare piety apieces tore.

XV

From Europe’s centre, through the Belgian gate

I rode and at the Door of Paris sate.

And many a city ravished by the road,

But Paris—she is still immaculate.

XVI

Here was the Gate to which I found no key;

Here was the Wall o’er which I might not see.

Some little talk awhile of strategy

There was, and then—good afternoon, Paree!

WAR RELIEF

“Can you spare a Threepenny bit,

Dear Miss Turkey,” said Sir Mouse,

“For Job’s Turkey’s benefit?

I’ve engaged the Opera House!”

“Alas! I’ve naught to spare!”

Said Miss Turkey, “save advice,

I am getting up a Fair,

To relieve the Poor Church Mice.”

SUMMER MASS

In the cloisters of the grass,

Lit by buttercups and daisies,

Celebrants of summer mass,

Little creatures sing their praises.

From a myriad throbbing throats

Rises up their song of Love,

Like a mist of golden motes,

To the Golden Throne above.

And the good Lord, bending nigh,

Quite forgets his house of stone

Where the frightened sinners cry,

And the frowning priests intone,

And the saints (if saints they be)

Smile and smile in effigy.

ABOUT PEOPLE I HAVE MET

ABOUT PEOPLE I HAVE MET

J. M. BARRIE

A Round Robin from His Humble and Devoted Servants the Alphabet

The Lord forgive if we transgress

Thus to familiarly address

One of our betters.

But, Jamie, do you no recall

The slate whereon you learned to scrawl

Your Humble Letters?

Well we remember how you drew

Our shapely features all askew,

Unflattering really.

You made A lame and B too fat.

And C too curly—what of that!

We loved you dearly.

From that first day we owned your spell.

And just because you used us well

We served you blindly.

Why, even when you put us through

A fearsome Scottish reel, we knew

You meant it kindly.

Jamie, ’tis said Grand Tales there be

Still biding in the A B C—

If this be true,

Quick, Jamie! Cast your golden net.

Maybe we have the grandest yet

In store for you.

THE HORSE

The Horse, I don’t mind telling you,

Is not an easy thing to do.

With Cats and Lions, I confess,

I’ve had a measure of success;

Likewise with Camels, Mice and Snails

And Frogs and Butterflies and Whales.

Eels and Rhinoc’ruses and Ants

And Porcupines and Elephants

And Bees and Yaks and Owls. But when

I try to draw a Horse, my pen

Sputters and scares the high-strung steed,

Who gallops off at such a speed

You have to take the beast on trust—

You can not see him for the dust.

THE TOWN CAT

The melancholy days are come,

The saddest of the year;

Of houses closed and doorbells dumb

And windows dark and drear.

Now Dives to his country seat

Has hied himself away,

And Tabby turned into the street

Must shift as best she may.

No more the cushion soft as silk,

The catnip ball no more;

No more the saucer full of milk

Behind the pantry door.

Nor shall she in the temple prey

Upon the lean church mouse;

The good Lord, too, has gone away

And closed his city house.

When Dives hies him back once more

To his town house, oh, shame!

Tabby will greet him at the door,

But not—no, not the same.

TOWSER

My hair hangs down on either side

Like a Niagara small.

Why is it this, my greatest pride,

Should bring about my fall?

Why is it that my well brushed hair,

That now so smoothly lies,

As soon as I descend the stair

Always gets in my eyes?

No wonder, thus deprived of sight,

I step on empty air

And to the bottom of the flight

Rebound from stair to stair.

I’m not the sort of dog that cares

To make a fuss when hit;

But falling down a flight of stairs

Is not the worst of it.

As there I lie completely out

Of breath and very flat,

Why is it always some one stout

That takes me for a mat?

THE OYSTER

In Autumn, when the leaves are dead,

They take us from our Oyster-bed,

And all the winter long they keep

Us up, without a wink of sleep—

And doesn’t it seem hard to you

When Spring is here, and skies are blue,

And we should like so much to stay,

We have to be in bed by MAY?

THE MOUSE

A Study in Egotisms

Scene: A drawing-room.

Persons: Clarissa, the Mouse, Purrline.

CLARISSA: Help! Help! A Mouse!

MOUSE:             Don’t be alarmed! I’m here!

I hurried when I heard you scream—

CLARISSA:                               Oh, dear!

If it jumps up at me I shall expire!

MOUSE: If I may be permitted to enquire,

Why are you standing there in such a fright,

Upon a chair, clutching your frock so tight

About your—

CLARISSA:             Help! Oh dear! I wonder what

That girl’s about! Good heavens! I forgot

It’s Jane’s day out. There’s no one in the house

But me—

MOUSE:             Fair lady! I am but a Mouse,

A simple Mouse, but underneath this fur

There beats a heart whose motto is Sans Purr.

To see a lovely female in distress

Rouses in me the spirit of Noblesse.

To her protection instantly I fly.

No common Mus Domesticus am I!

You may have heard—

CLARISSA:                   If only Jane were here!

What shall I do?

MOUSE:                   Dear lady, have no fear!

As I was saying, doubtless you’ve heard tell

How once a Mountain bore a Mouse-child. Well,

I was that Child! Or rather, to be more

Strictly veracious, ’twas my Ancestor;

And sometimes when I dream of deeds Titanic

I think that Mountain must have been Volcanic!

So have no fear! If any one should dare

Molest you, I am here beneath your chair,

Ready to spring—

CLARISSA:                   Mercy! I wonder why

It squeaks like that! It’s crazy! I shall die

If it—

MOUSE:             Sweet lady! Though I cannot guess

From your queer speech the cause of your distress,

Your voice, quite meaningless to my Mouse ear,

Is strangely sweet and musical and clear;

And, though they violate our beauty-laws,

I never saw such shapely hinder paws

As yours, so smooth and beautiful to see,

So silky white, like sticks of celery.

Upon each side a tender sprig of gold—

Gold as pure Cheese, and toothsome to behold—

Climbs up and up! ’Tis called, so I am told

By Mice more versed in lady-lore, a Clock.

Once, it is said, a Mouse named Dickery Dock

Ran up the—

CLARISSA:                   Ouch!!!

MOUSE:                         I wonder if I dare!

Only the brave deserve—

CLARISSA:                         O Lord! This chair

Is giving way! If it should break!—What’s that?

It’s Purrline’s mew! Here, Puss! Puss!—

MOUSE:                               What? The Cat!

I’d love to meet him! But it’s getting late.

My wife’s expecting me. I musn’t wait!

(Exit)

PURRLINE: Me-ouw!

CLARISSA:             And is that all you’ve got to say?

Did you expect the Mouse to wait all day?

For all you care, I might have died of fright!

My! But I’m glad it got away all right!

CURTAIN

PEOPLE I HAVE NOT MET

PEOPLE I HAVE NOT MET

THE TURTLE

I never wasted any love

On turtles, but the turtle-dove

Is quite another thing;

When I have nothing else to do,

I love to hear them bill and coo

While mating in the spring.

There’s something in their plaintive note

That brings a lump into my throat

And makes my pulses stir;

Something between a smothered snore

And the shrill creaking of a door,

That soothes me, as it were.

How strange is Nature’s alchemy,

To think that living in the sea

Should change a creature so!

The turtle of the finny kind

That swims the sea, is to my mind

The lowest of the low.

And yet, O inconsistency!

Although the turtle is to me

A most obnoxious beast,

When on a menu card I spy

“Green Turtle, Soup,” though it comes high,

I take two plates at least!

MICHAEL O’LEARY

When forming one of a storming party which advanced against an enemy’s barricade, O’Leary rushed to the front and himself killed five Germans who were holding the first barricade, after which he attacked the second barricade, about sixty yards further on, which he captured after killing three of the enemy and making prisoners of two more.

You may talk of the Rebels of Ulster

And the shindy we had to chuck;

But we don’t give a rap for a family scrap

Whin the Prooshuns is running amuck.

Did you hear how Lance Corporal O’Leary,

Mike O’Leary of the Guards,

Wid his own two mits, tore a forthress to bits

Like a blissed conthraption of cards.

He’d a shmile, had Mike, that ’ud span a dyke,

And a fist that ’ud fell a horse,

And he ripped through the mire of blood and barbed wire,

Like a bull through a bunch of gorse.

Whin he waded in, sure ’twas a sin,

The way that he bashed and bruk ’em;

He dropped on thim Huns like forty tons,

And they niver knew what had struck ’em.

“Poor dears,” says Mike, “I’m thinking belike

All the news they’ve been told is lies,

So it’s up to me, ’ere it’s kilt they be,

To put the poor divils wise.

“Thim Huns, I’m told, while outrageous bold

Is over a trifle dull.

Sure, if that’s a fact, ’tis a friendly act

To hammer it through their skull.

“So here’s for insulting old Erin,

By thinking a thraitor she’d be!

And here’s for your Imperor sneerin’!

‘Contemptible army,’ says he.

“Here’s one for the mothers whose pleadin’

You stopped with a shot and a curse,

And one for the girls dead and bleedin’

And the girls that you spared—for worse.

“For the churches you shelled and the priests you felled

Here’s one! And the women, too,

You held for a shield on the battle field,

And the innocent babes you slew.”

Whin O’Leary had done, there was divil a one

Left to tumble to what he said—

Barrin’ only ten, which I’m wrong again,

For eight av the ten was dead.

CLORINDA

A Fable for Heiresses

Above the plate-glass window-pane,

Inviting every passing gaze,

Hung an inscription, large and plain,

“THE HUSBAND SHOP.” This, in amaze,

Clorinda seeing, stopped wide-eyed,

And stared, then turned and stepped inside.

A floor-walker whose faultlessness

And condescending air proclaimed

One of the table d’haute noblesse,

Approached Clorinda and exclaimed,

With graceful undulating palm:

“Something in husbands? Oui, Madame.”

“We have the latest thing of all

In husbands; kindly step this way.

We’re using them on hats this fall,

In place of plume or floral spray,

The creature being pinned or tied

With chiffon bows on either side.”

He leads the way, all wreathed in smiles,

And wonderful in spotless spats

That flitter like twin butterflies

Along an avenue of hats,

Each one displaying on its brim

A husband—fashion’s latest whim.

Clorinda tries them each in turn

Before the glass; some are too small,

And some too cold, and some too stern,

And some are slightly soiled, and all,

When punctured by the hat-pin’s steel,

Betray by squirms how bored they feel.

At last Clorinda came to one

Marked “Dibbs,” that scarce seemed worth

her while;

But when she tried it on for fun,

It met the hat-pin with a smile,

As if to say, “Oh, beauteous miss,

Even a stab from you is bliss!”

“The very thing! but thrown away

Upon a hat!” Clorinda cried.

“’Twould make a sweet corsage bouquet.”

The shoppers stared electrified,

To see Clorinda Dibbs depart

Wearing a husband next her heart.

ALCIBIADES J. SKINNER

Alcibiades J. Skinner

Was a famous after-dinner

Speaker. Great the way

He secured, just by excelling

In the art of Story Telling,

One good meal a day.

Chestnuts more than often passé

He exchanged for Marrons Glacés,

Canvasback and Quail.

Flat the feast and dull the dinner

Lacking that accomplished Spinner

Of Postprandial Tale.

Every mail brought invitations:

Teas and luncheons and collations,

Dinners without end.

No one to a Formal Function

Such impressiveness, such unction,

Such éclat could lend.

At that gruesomest of gruesome

Rites, The Banquet tendered to some

Literary Light,

None could say with such conviction,

“We have Snooks of Snappy Fiction

In our midst To-night.”

How he said it made no matter;

Shaft of Wit or Broadway Patter

Meets with like acclaim.

Latest Mot or Jest Historic,

To the dinner guest plethoric

It is all the same.

When he said, “This moment finds me

Unprepared,” or, “That reminds me,”

There would be a hum

Of expectance, or a rippling

As though Daniel (or Kipling)

Had to Judgment come.

Alas for Fame! As A. J. Skinner

Put it at the Author’s Dinner,

“Fame’s a fickle Jade!”

Had he then an intimation

That his own wide reputation

Was ere long to fade?

From that day his after-dinner

Stories thinner grew and thinner.

Sorry was his case.

Rare the dinner invitation,

Rarer still the lunch—Starvation

Stared him in the face.

One day as his eye was wandering

O’er a map, he fell to pondering:

“If I cross the Main,

Somewhere ’twixt the Poles and Tropics

I may find some brand new Topics

For my food campaign!”

So one Friday A. J. Skinner

Bought a passage and an “Inner”

On a sailing ship;

Not for sport or relaxation,

Not for rest or recreation—

’Twas a business trip.

Fatal trip, had he but known it!

Or a Fortune Teller shown it

Written on his palm!—

How one morning bright and sunny,

With a breeze as soft as honey,

And a sea as calm—

Somewhere in the South Pacific

There would spring up a terrific

Tropical typhoon—

Smite their helpless ship and bear it

On a mountain wave and tear it

Like a Toy Balloon.

Luckily for Mr. Skinner,

When she sank he was not in her.

Clinging to a Spar,

Being, too, an expert swimmer,

Soon he saw the breakers’ glimmer

On a sandy bar.

Lucky, did I say? Appalling

Choice of words! Would you when crawling

Up a Sandbank gritty,

On firm land a foothold winning,

Call it luck to meet a grinning

Cannibal Committee?

Well, to make a long narration

Shorter (by abbreviation),

Soon as he was sighted

Alcibiades J. Skinner

To a most select Shore Dinner

Was at once invited.

Never had the South Pacific

Witnessed such a beatific

Banquet as was here.

Never was such mirth unbounded

As when that far beach resounded

With unwonted cheer.

Epicures on South Sea beaches

Waste no time on Toasts and Speeches;

Happy dreams had they.

In their midst was A. J. Skinner,

Most nutritious After-Dinner

Speaker of his day.

EVE

Apropos de Rien

It is not fair to visit all

The blame on Eve, for Adam’s fall;

The most Eve did was to display

Contributory negligé.

THE HIGHBROW HEN

Said Farmer Dole to his speckled hen,

“Why don’t you lay for me now and then?”

Said the speckled hen to Farmer Dole,

“Because I’ve taken up birth control.”

SIR IPPYKIN

Grim Giant Graft sate in his cavern dim;

A king’s reward was offered for him dead.

He scowled to think it could not come to him,

That price upon his head.

Of all his foes he dreaded only one,

A knight of stalwart heart and spotless fame,

Who feared no creature underneath the sun—

Sir Ippykin his name.

One night to Ippykin there came a thought—

A mocking thought, that whispered in his ear:

“Ah, ha, Sir Knight! men say thou fearest naught;

They lie—thou fearest Fear!

“Fear smites you when you read the king’s decree

That whatsoever knight shall rid the land

Of Giant Graft will gain a golden fee,

Likewise his daughter’s hand.

“You fear to win, for fear that you must wed

The princess—for you love another maid;

You dare not lose the fight because you dread

Lest men call you afraid.”

Cried Ippykin, “Lord, how shall I cut through

This tangled coil?” Then of a sudden laughed

A gleeful laugh, and rose and hied him to

The cave of Giant Graft.

No chronicler was present to reveal

What passed between the knight and Giant Graft;

Or what the bargain was the which to seal

So many horns they quaffed.

But this is sure—thereafter from the lands

Of Ippykin once every week would stray

Certain fat sheep into the Giant’s hands

In some mysterious way;

And once a week the giant and the knight

Would chase each other round in seeming strife,

Until the king grew weary of the sight,

And pensioned both for life.

Then Ippykin and his true love were wed

And both lived happy till they passed away;

But Giant Graft, fat, flagrant, and well fed,

Is living to this day.

THE PSYCHOLOGY COP

The New York Police Force is to be instructed in psychology.—News Item.

One morn, as Robert Ristwatch Rice

Sped Childsward for his midday meal,

Upon his shoulder, like a vise,

He felt a grip of steel.

And in his ear a voice there hissed

(With spirits fraught, and crime),

And something snapped around his wrist

That did not tell the time.

“I’ve pinched yer now!” (devoid of tact

Was Sergeant Fay). “For shame!

Yer Hun! I caught yer in the act

Insultin’ that there dame!

“That skirt there in the showy lid,

And muff of classy fur.”

“My word!” cried Robert Rice, “I did

Not even speak to her.”

“What’s words to me, just froth and foam!

I’m a psycholic guy—

I lamp yer thoughts inside yer dome

With my subconscious eye!”

“Then you should know,” said Rice, “I’m a

MISOGYNIST!”—“By Gee!

That settles you!” cried Sergeant Fay;

“You come along with me.”

PHYLLIS LEE

Beside a Primrose ’broider’d Rill

Sat Phyllis Lee in Silken Dress

Whilst Lucius limn’d with loving skill

Her likeness, as a Shepherdess.

Yet tho’ he strove with loving skill

His Brush refused to work his Will.

“Dear Maid, unless you close your Eyes

I can not paint to-day,” he said;

“Their Brightness shames the very Skies

And turns their Turquoise into Lead.”

Quoth Phyllis, then, “To save the Skies

And speed your Brush, I’ll shut my Eyes.”

Now when her Eyes were closed, the Dear,

Not dreaming of such Treachery,

Felt a Soft Whisper in her Ear,

“Without the Light, how can one See?”

“If you are sure that none can see

I’ll keep them shut,” said Phyllis Lee.

MRS. SEYMOUR FENTOLIN

It was Mrs. Seymour Fentolin who stood there, a little dog under each arm; a large hat, gay with flowers, upon her head. She wore patent shoes with high heels, and white silk stockings. She had, indeed, the air of being dressed for luncheon at a fashionable restaurant.

From a story in The Popular Magazine.

The lauded lilies of the field

Who toil not—neither do they spin,

The palm sartorial must yield

To Mrs. Seymour Fentolin.

A hat, French heels, white stockings, dogs!

Not even Solomon could win

The championship for showy togs

From Mrs. Seymour Fentolin.

The two extremes in décolleté,

Of ballroom and of bathing beach,

Here meet in a bewildering way

And mingle all the charms of each.

I am no social butter-in,

I do not crave to meet her bunch,

But where does Mrs. Fentolin,

If one might venture—take her lunch?

And might one ask that peerless dame,

Without appearing impolite,

Is Seymour really her first name,

And has the printer spelt it right?

THE DEVIL AMONG THE LADIES

I

The Devil seeking some new way

To kill eternity, one day

(So bored he was, in Hades)

Flew to Manhattan Isle to start

A Summer School to teach the art

Of Smuggling to Ladies.

II

He opened in an uptown street

A Modiste’s shop refined and neat

(The number doesn’t matter),

Displaying in his window all

The Modes—Spring, Summer, Winter,

Fall

(Especially the latter).

III

The Ladies came in eager flocks,

And as he showed his Paris frocks,

With dext’rous verbal juggling,

He lightly led the talk from Modes

To Customs—and the law that goads

An honest girl to smuggling.

IV

“If Uncle Sam for Revenue,

Dear Ladies, picks your pockets, you

The compliment should bandy.

Pray let me teach you how to pick

The spangled pockets of that slick

Avuncular old Dandy.

V

“We can begin at once, if you

Will step this way.” The giddy crew

Flocked after him like chickens

To where an effigy there hung

Of Uncle Sam with bells be-strung

Like Fagin’s doll in Dickens.

VI

The Devil then with money fills

The dummy’s pockets—gold and bills

And silver pieces mingling.

“Now try your skill! all you can take

Is yours, my dears, if you don’t shake

The bells and set them jingling.”

VII

The news flew round, and soon the crush

Was like a bargain-counter rush

Of Frantic Ladies struggling;

And soon the Devil was about

A hundred thousand dollars out

And closed his School of Smuggling.

VIII

Exclaiming, “I’m behind the age!”

He kicked the dummy in his rage.

“What’s this—the bells don’t jingle!”

And sure enough the bells were dumb.

Deftly inserted chewing gum

Had stopped their tingle-tingle.

IX

“Ho! ho!” he laughed, “’tis plain to see

New York is too advanced for me.

I should have stayed in Hades;

For who the devil, pray, am I

In this enlightened age to try

My wit against the Ladies!”

SPRING

By his cold hearth, sans Youth, sans Mirth,

Sits poor old shivering Daddy Earth.

A knock, a footstep on the floor.

“Come in!” he growls—“and shut that door!”

Two soft hands on his eyelids press;

A laughing voice: “Who am I?—guess!”

“’Tis Mistress Spring! Alas, my dear,

You find me sadly changed, I fear.”

“Cheer up!” cried Spring, “I bring for you

The Spell of Youth: Gold—Silver—Blue.”

Sun gold, sky turquoise, silver rain,

And Daddy Earth was young again!

He danced, he sang: “Hail Spring divine!

Ethereal Spring—h’m—wine?—pine—shine?”

Too late the rhyme popped in his head;

“Be mine!” he sang—but Spring had fled.

THE CATFISH

The saddest fish that swims the briny ocean,

The Catfish I bewail.

I can not even think without emotion

Of his distressful tail.

When with my pencil once I tried to draw one,

(I dare not show it here)

Mayhap it is because I never saw one,

The picture looked so queer.

I vision him half feline and half fishy,

A paradox in twins,

Unmixable as vitriol and vichy—

A thing of fur and fins.

A feline Tantalus, forever chasing

His fishy self to rend;

His finny self forever self-effacing

In circles without end.

This tale may have a Moral running through it

As Æsop had in his;

If so, dear reader, you are welcome to it,

If you know what it is!

THE PRODIGAL CENTIPEDE

Once to a Centipede a Snail

Remarked, “I wonder why you trail

Along the ground with such a lot

of feet—a hundred, is it not?

A hundred feet! when two or three

Are all you need. Just look at me!

“The speed and ease with which I crawl,

And yet I have no feet at all!

In these days would it not be wise

For you to—well, to Hooferize?

You surely don’t need more than two

To get along! If I were you,

I’d use one pair and stand up straight,

And save the other ninety-eight

Against a rainy day.”

“Indeed

You’re right!” replied the Centipede.

“I’ve often thought, to do my part,

’Twould be advisable to start

A Feetless Day—but then, you see,

If I stood upright I should be

A hundred feet in height, and I

Might bump my head against the sky!”

“Well,” said the Snail, “I must admit

That puts a different face on it!

Your life depends on lying flat!

Dear! Dear! I hadn’t thought of that!”

A BALLADE OF BLACK SOCKS

Plain Black socks can never be wrong.

—The Gentleman of Letters

in “Vanity Fair.”

Lords of Fashion may disagree

On the question of questions, what to wear

At déjeuner, dinner, dance or tea,

“Feed informal” or “Smart affair.”

Let not the neophyte despair

Dreading disdain of the gilded throng

Hark to the dictum of Vanity Fair

“Plain Black Socks can never be wrong.”

Let scribes sartorial decree

Whether the “skirt” shall be full or spare,

Whether the crease be above the knee,

Whether the seam shall be here or there.

Of the openwork sock with the clock beware!

On Fancy’s rein let your curb be strong!

Hark to the dictum of Vanity Fair,

“Plain Black Socks can never be wrong.”

Doubting dolts may be all at sea

Tossed on tempestuous waves of care.

Are they wearing two studs?—or one?—or three?

Will a satin tie cause a well bred stare?

Leave dressy deeds to dudes that dare!

Heed not the scented siren’s song

Hark to the dictum of Vanity Fair,

“Plain Black Socks can never be wrong.”

L’envoi

Princes of Fashion, wherever ye fare—

London, Paris, New York, Hong Kong,

Hark to the dictum of Vanity Fair:

“Plain Black Socks can never be wrong.”

OTHER PEOPLE INCLUDING

MARK TWAIN

OTHER PEOPLE INCLUDING MARK TWAIN

Horace

THE GENTLEMAN OF LETTERS

How splendid to have men’s attire treated by a gentleman and litterateur.—John Armstrong Chaloner.

Ah me! Had Horace when his muse was flagging,

But given laughing Lalage a rest,

And kept Mæcenas’ pantaloons from bagging,

(Whatever ’twas he wore below his vest.)

Moore

If when his frisky Pegasus he mounted,

He’d sung, instead of the eternal HER

The stylish HIM, he might have been accounted

A gentleman as well as litterateur.

If Shakespeare had abstained from malty liquors,

And spent the time (when not purloining plays)

In pressing Francis Bacon’s velvet knickers

He might thereby have gained a social raise.

If Tommy Moore when not devoutly pressing

His suit in amorous rhyme, had pressed instead

His patrons lordly “pants,” it is past guessing

What titles had been showered on his head.

Had Bobby Burns renounced his Highland lassies,

And tuned his pipes to “Gentlemen’s attire,”

He might in time have risen from the masses

And been addressed as Robert Burns, Esquire.

If Hall Caine—............................

.....................................................

.....................................................

..................but why drag in Hall Caine?

Come, Chaloner, confess like a good feller

By “Gentleman and litterateur” you meant

The literary style of the Best Seller

And the strictly pure refinement of the Gent.

THE WOMEN OF THE BETTER CLASS

“The artists and writers were the first Americans to make themselves at home in this amusing Parisian resort. (The Old Café Martin.) And it was here, too, that women of the better class first tasted the delights of café life. It was considered quite a daring thing in the late eighties for be-cloaked and be-diamonded women of Fifth Avenue to sit here and sip their after-dinner coffee.”

Vanity Fair.

One of those queer, artistic dives,

Where funny people had their fling.

Artists, and writers, and their wives—

Poets, and all that sort of thing.

Here, too, to view the vulgar herd

And sip the daring demi-tasse—

Be-cloaked, be-diamonded, be-furred—

Came women of the better class.

With its Parisian atmosphere,

It had a Latin Quarter ring.

Painters and journalists came here—

Actors, and all that sort of thing.

Here, too, to watch the Great Ungroomed

And sip the dangerous demi-tasse,

Be-furred, be-feathered and be-plumed,

Came women of the better class.

Here Howells dined—Saint Gaudens, Nast,

Kipling, Mark Twain and Peter Dunne,

Nell Terry, and not least though last

One Robert Louis Stevenson.

And mingling with that underworld,

To sip the devilish demi-tasse,

Be-cloaked, be-diamonded, be-pearled,

Came women of the better class.

Like geese to see the lions fed,

They came—be-jewelled and be-laced,

Only to find the lions fled.

“My Word!” cried they, “What wretched taste!”

Ermined and minked and Persian-lambed,

Be-puffed (be-painted, too, alas!)

Be-decked, be-diamonded—be-damned!

The women of the better class.

MARK TWAIN

A Pipe Dream

Well I recall how first I met

Mark Twain—an infant barely three

Rolling a tiny cigarette

While cooing on his nurse’s knee.

Since then in every sort of place

I’ve met with Mark and heard him joke,

Yet how can I describe his face?

I never saw it for the smoke.

At school he won a smokership,

At Harvard College (Cambridge, Mass.)

His name was soon on every lip,

They made him “smoker” of his class.

Who will forget his smoking bout

With Mount Vesuvius—our cheers—

When Mount Vesuvius went out

And didn’t smoke again for years?

The news was flashed to England’s King,

Who begged Mark Twain to come and stay,

Offered him dukedoms—anything

To smoke the London fog away.

But Mark was firm. “I bow,” said he,

“To no imperial command,

No ducal coronet for me,

My smoke is for my native land!”

For Mark there waits a brighter crown!

When Peter comes his card to read—

He’ll take the sign “No Smoking” down,

Then Heaven will be Heaven indeed.

PRINCE POMPOM

Beneath a Fruitful Apple Tree

Sate Pompom, youth of high degree,

And Prince of Apple-Tartary;

While in the branches overhead

The apples blushed with rapture red,

As from a great book on his knees

He read of the Hesperides,

And how, to win the apples gold,

One Hercules, a Hero bold,

A hundred-headed Dragon shew.

“How brave! How wonderful! How true!”

Exclaimed the apples, flushed and red.

“That proves what we have always said:

We come of Ancient Pedigree!

We’re of the Applestocracy!

Our title cannot be denied.”

Whereat they swelled and swelled with Pride

Until their High and Mighty Air

Was more than Apple Tree could bear.

“Come!” cried the Tree, “you must vacate

My boughs—they will not bear your weight!”

Pride goes before a fall.

Alas!

Next morning, prone upon the grass,

Blushing for shame, the Apples lay,

And when Queen Pompom passed that way

She picked them up, and by and by

She made them into Apple Pie.

THE SERIAL

To the Tune of Tennyson

I burst upon the reader’s eye

With verbal trumpet blaring,

Proclaiming me the latest cry

In fictionary daring—

Vital, compelling, hectic, rare,

Heart-gripping, epoch-making!

A woman’s naked soul laid bare,

A climax record-breaking!

A quivering, pulsating plot,

The mystery of a red room,

A story to be read red hot

In boudoir, or bedroom,

An Eve, repentant, up to date,

Confesses what her fall meant;

You simply won’t know how to wait

Until the next installment.

I come from heaven knows where—or when.

My pedigree is shady.

My father was a Fountain Pen;

My mother, a Typelady,

Who smote the keys from morn till night

With fingers swift and taper,

Till I appeared, all clean and bright,

On reams of foolscap paper.

And now in serial form I flow,

And flout at style and diction,

As like a babbling brook I go

To join the Sea of Fiction.

Some streams, I know, more deeply flow,

And some for speed endeavor.

Short stories come, short stories go,

But I’ll go on forever.

I glitter like a foolish string

Of pearls, with polish painful,

With epigrams of doubtful ring

And platitudes Hall-Caineful.

And many a mood and tense amiss,

And metaphor amuddle,

And here and there a clinging kiss,

And here and there a cuddle—

And here and there a phrase in French,

To give a touch linguisty;

And here and there a Fisher wench,

And here and there a Christy.

And here and there and everywhere

My thin stream slowly trickles

’Twixt Bunk’s Elixir for the Hair

And Black and Croswell’s Pickles.

And here a temperamental scene,

Fervid, intense, Byronic—

Tosses tempestuous between

Ayre’s Soap and Tinkham’s Tonic.

A sprightly conversation’s flow

Is checked by Soak and Stingham’s

Pink Pills, to reappear below

An ad for ladies’ thingums.

The well-known slip ’twixt cup and lip

Here, too, finds confirmation—

“He raised his glass”—Thy Anti-Grip!

Beware of Imitations!

—“Up to his lips; when on his wrist

He felt a grip, steel-sinewed;

The glass fell, and a hoarse voice hissed

The words”—To be Continued.

Editorial Note

Some streams, we know, more deeply flow,

And some for speed endeavor.

Short stories come, short stories go,

But this goes on forever.

THE CLOUD

An Idyll of the Western Front

SCENE: A wayside shrine in France.

PERSONS: Celeste, Pierre, a Cloud.

CELESTE (gazing at the solitary white Cloud):

I wonder what your thoughts are, little Cloud,

Up in the sky, so lonely and so proud!

CLOUD: Not proud, dear maiden; lonely, if you will.

Long have I watched you, sitting there so still

Before that little shrine beside the way,

And wondered where your thoughts might be astray;

Your knitting lying idle on your knees,

And worse than idle—like Penelope’s,

Working its own undoing!

CELESTE (picks up her knitting): Who was she?

Saints! What a knot!—Who was Penelope?

What happened to her knitting? Tell me, Cloud!

CLOUD: She was a Queen; she wove her husband’s shroud.

CELESTE (drops the knitting):

His shroud!

CLOUD:             There, there! ’Twas only an excuse

To put her lovers off, a wifely ruse,

Bidding them bide till it was finished, she

Each night the web unravelled secretly.

CELESTE: He came home safe?

CLOUD:                               If I remember right,

It was the lovers needed shrouds that night!

It is an old, old tale. I heard it through

A Wind whose ancestor it was that blew

Ulysses’ ship across the purple sea

Back to his people and Penelope.

We Clouds pick up strange tales, as far and wide

And to and fro above the world we ride,

Across uncharted seas, upon the swell

Of viewless waves and tides invisible,

Freighted with friendly flood or forkèd flame,

Knowing not whither bound nor whence we came;

Now drifting lonely, now a company

Of pond’rous galleons—

CELESTE:                               Oft-times I see

A Cloud, as by some playful fancy stirred,

Take likeness of a monstrous beast or bird

Or some fantastic fish, as though ’twere clay

Moulded by unseen hands.

CLOUD:                               Then tell me, pray,

What I resemble now!

CELESTE:                               I scarcely know.

But had you asked a little while ago,

I should have said a camel; then your hump

Dissolved, and you became a gosling plump,

Downy and white and warm—

CLOUD:                         What! Warm, up here?

Ten thousand feet above the earth!

CELESTE:                                     Oh dear!

What am I thinking of! Of course I know

How cold it is. Pierre has told me so

A thousand times.

CLOUD:                         And who is this Pierre

That tells you all the secrets of the air?

How came he to such frigid heights to soar?

CELESTE: Pierre’s my—He is in the Flying Corps.

CLOUD: Ah, now I understand! And he’s away?

CELESTE: He left at dawn, where for he would not say,

Telling me only ’twas a bombing raid

Somewhere—My God! What’s that?

CLOUD:                               What, little maid?

CELESTE (pointing): That—over there—beyond the

wooded crest!

CLOUD: Only a skylark dropping to her nest;

Her mate is hov’ring somewhere near. I heard

His tremulous song of love—

CELESTE:                               That was no bird!

(Drops upon her knees.)

O Mary! Blessed Mother! Hear my prayer!

That one that fell—grant it was not Pierre!

Here is the cross my mother gave me—I

Will burn the longest candle it will buy!

CLOUD: Courage, my child! Your prayer will not be vain!

Who guards the lark, will guide your lover’s plane.

The West Wind’s calling. I must go!—Hark! There

He sings again! Le bon Dieu garde, ma chère!

II

PIERRE: I made a perfect landing over there

Behind the church—

CELESTE:             The Virgin heard my prayer!

Now I must burn the candle that I vowed—

PIERRE: Then ’twas our Blessed Lady sent that Cloud

That saved me when the Boche came up behind.

I made a lightning turn, only to find

The Boche on top of me. It seemed a kind

Of miracle to see that Cloud—I swear

A moment past the sky was everywhere

As clear as clear; there was no Cloud in sight.

It looked to me, floating there calm and white.

Like a great mother hen, and I a chick.

She seemed to call me, and I scurried quick

Behind her wing. That spoiled the Boche’s game,

And gave me time to turn and take good aim.

I emptied my last drum, and saw him drop

Ten thousand feet in flames—

CELESTE (shuddering):             Stop! Pierre, stop!

Maybe a girl is waiting for him too—

PIERRE: ’Twas either him or me—

CELESTE:                         Thank God, not you!

PIERRE (pointing to the church): Come, let us burn

the candle that you vowed.

CELESTE: Two candles!

PIERRE:             Who’s the other for?

CELESTE:                               The Cloud!

FINIS

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE

Obvious typographical errors and punctuation errors have been corrected after careful comparison with other occurrences within the text and consultation of external sources.

Except for those changes noted below, all misspellings in the text, and inconsistent or archaic usage, have been retained.

Pg viii, ‘High Brow Hen’ replaced by ‘Highbrow Hen’.

Pg 39, ‘Lese Majestee’ replaced by ‘Lésé Majesté’.

Pg 61, ‘if we trangress’ replaced by ‘if we transgress’.

Pg 77, ‘smothered sn’ replaced by ‘smothered snore’.

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Table of Contents

THE LAUGHING WILLOW

CONTENTS

THE LAUGHING WILLOW

EPITAPHS

THE TRUTH ABOUT RUSSIA

THE WEDDING FEAST

A MUJIK

THE COSSACK

THE THREE S’S

THE AIR RAID

VALE DIABOLE

THE WRONG FLOOR

MARCHING TO BERLIN

TARGET PRACTICE

THE SAUSAGE BALLOON

CONCERNING THE CROWN PRINCE

CAMOUFLAGE

THE TANK

THE BIRD-MAN

FRENZYLOGICAL CHART

BRITANNIA SALVATRIX

FATHER WILHELM

THE TOUCHING BALLAD OF GENERAL VON BEERS

AN IMPERIAL SNEEZE

THE RUBAIYAT OF BILLI KAISAM

WAR RELIEF

SUMMER MASS

ABOUT PEOPLE I HAVE MET

J. M. BARRIE

THE HORSE

THE TOWN CAT

TOWSER

THE OYSTER

THE MOUSE

PEOPLE I HAVE NOT MET

THE TURTLE

MICHAEL O’LEARY

CLORINDA

ALCIBIADES J. SKINNER

EVE

THE HIGHBROW HEN

SIR IPPYKIN

THE PSYCHOLOGY COP

PHYLLIS LEE

MRS. SEYMOUR FENTOLIN

THE DEVIL AMONG THE LADIES

SPRING

THE CATFISH

THE PRODIGAL CENTIPEDE

A BALLADE OF BLACK SOCKS

OTHER PEOPLE INCLUDING MARK TWAIN

THE GENTLEMAN OF LETTERS

THE WOMEN OF THE BETTER CLASS

MARK TWAIN

PRINCE POMPOM

THE SERIAL

THE CLOUD

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE