| Philosophy shows us 'twixt monkey and man One simious line in unbroken extendage; Development only since first it began— And chiefly in losing the caudal appendage. Our ancestors' holding was wholly in tail, And the loss of this feature we claim as a merit; But though often at tale-bearing people we rail, 'Tis rather a loss than a gain we inherit. The tail was a rudder—a capital thing To a man who was half—or a quarter—seas over; And as for a sailor, by that he could cling, And use for his hands and his feet both discover. In the Arts it would quickly have found out a place; The painter would use it to steady his pencil; In music, how handy to pound at the bass! And then one could write by its coilings prehensile. The Army had gained had the fashion endured— 'Twould carry a sword, or be good in saluting; If the foe should turn tail, they'd be quickly secured; Or, used as a lasso, 'twould help in recruiting. To the Force 'twould add force—they could "run 'em in" so That one to three culprits would find himself equal; He could collar the two, have the other in tow— A very good form of the Tale and its Sequel. In life many uses 'twould serve we should see— A man with no bed could hang cosily snoozing; 'Twould hold an umbrella, hand cups round at tea, Or a candle support while our novel perusing. In fact, when one thinks of our loss from of old, It makes us regret that we can't go in for it, or Wish, like the Dane, we a tail could unfold, Instead of remaining each one a stump orator. William Sawyer. |
SALAD
| To make this condiment, your poet begs The pounded yellow of two hard-boiled eggs; Two boiled potatoes, passed through kitchen-sieve, Smoothness and softness to the salad give; Let onion atoms lurk within the bowl, And, half-suspected, animate the whole. Of mordant mustard add a single spoon, Distrust the condiment that bites so soon; But deem it not, thou man of herbs, a fault, To add a double quantity of salt. And, lastly, o'er the flavored compound toss A magic soup-spoon of anchovy sauce. Oh, green and glorious! Oh, herbaceous treat! 'Twould tempt the dying anchorite to eat; Back to the world he'd turn his fleeting soul, And plunge his fingers in the salad bowl! Serenely full, the epicure would say, Fate can not harm me, I have dined to-day! Sydney Smith. |
NEMESIS
| The man who invented the women's waists that button down behind, And the man who invented the cans with keys and the strips that will never wind, Were put to sea in a leaky boat and with never a bite to eat But a couple of dozen of patent cans in which was their only meat. And they sailed and sailed o'er the ocean wide and never they had a taste Of aught to eat, for the cans stayed shut, and a peek-a-boo shirtwaist Was all they had to bale the brine that came in the leaky boat; And their tongues were thick and their throats were dry, and they barely kept afloat. They came at last to an island fair, and a man stood on the shore. So they flew a signal of distress and their hopes rose high once more, And they called to him to fetch a boat, for their craft was sinking fast, And a couple of hours at best they knew was all their boat would last. So he called to them a cheery call and he said he would make haste, But first he must go back to his wife and button up her waist, Which would only take him an hour or so and then he would fetch a boat. And the man who invented the backstairs waist, he groaned in his swollen throat. The hours passed by on leaden wings and they saw another man In the window of a bungalow, and he held a tin meat can In his bleeding hands, and they called to him, not once but twice and thrice, And he said: "Just wait till I open this and I'll be there in a trice!" And the man who invented the patent cans he knew what the promise meant, So he leaped in air with a horrid cry and into the sea he went, And the bubbles rose where he sank and sank and a groan choked in the throat Of the man who invented the backstairs waist and he sank with the leaky boat! J. W. Foley. |
"MONA LISA"
| Mona Lisa, Mona Lisa! Have you gone? Great Julius Cæsar! Who's the Chap so bold and pinchey Thus to swipe the great da Vinci, Taking France's first Chef d'oeuvre Squarely from old Mr. Louvre, Easy as some pocket-picker Would remove our handkerchicker As we ride in careless folly On some gaily bounding trolley? Mona Lisa, Mona Lisa, Who's your Captor? Doubtless he's a Crafty sort of treasure-seeker— Ne'er a Turpin e'er was sleeker— But, alas, if he can win you Easily as I could chin you, What is safe in all the nations From his dreadful depredations? He's the style of Chap, I'm thinkin', Who will drive us all to drinkin'! Mona Lisa, Mona Lisa, Next he'll swipe the Tower of Pisa, Pulling it from out its socket For to hide it in his pocket; Or perhaps he'll up and steal, O, Madame Venus, late of Milo; Or maybe while on the grab he Will annex Westminster Abbey, And elope with that distinguished Heap of Ashes long extinguished. Maybe too, O Mona Lisa, He will come across the seas a— Searching for the style of treasure That we have in richest measure. Sunset Cox's brazen statue, Have a care lest he shall catch you! Or maybe he'll set his eye on Hammerstein's, or the Flatiron, Or some bit of White Wash done By those lads at Washington— Truly he's a crafty geezer, Is your Captor, Mona Lisa! John Kendrick Bangs. |
THE SIEGE OF DJKLXPRWBZ
| Before a Turkish town The Russians came. And with huge cannon Did bombard the same. They got up close And rained fat bombshells down, And blew out every Vowel in the town. And then the Turks, Becoming somewhat sad, Surrendered every Consonant they had. Eugene Fitch Ware. |
RURAL BLISS
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The poet is, or ought to be, a hater of the city, And so, when happiness is mine, and Maud becomes my wife, We'll look on town inhabitants with sympathetic pity, For we shall lead a peaceful and serene Arcadian life. Then shall I sing in eloquent and most effective phrases, The grandeur of geraniums and the beauty of the rose; Immortalise in deathless strains the buttercups and daisies— For even I can hardly be mistaken as to those. The music of the nightingale will ring from leafy hollow, And fill us with a rapture indescribable in words; And we shall also listen to the robin and the swallow (I wonder if a swallow sings?) and … well, the other birds. Too long I dwelt in ignorance of all the countless treasures Which dwellers in the country have in such abundant store; To give a single instance of the multitude of pleasures— The music of the nighting—oh, I mentioned that before. And shall I prune potato-trees and artichokes, I wonder, And cultivate the silo-plant, which springs (I hope it springs?) In graceful foliage overhead?—Excuse me if I blunder, It's really inconvenient not to know the name of things!
No matter; in the future, when I celebrate the beauty Of country life in glowing terms, and "build the lofty rhyme" Aware that every Englishman is bound to do his duty, I'll learn to give the stupid things their proper names in time! Meanwhile, you needn't wonder at the view I've indicated, The country life appears to me indubitably blest, For, even if its other charms are
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