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NYPUBLC BRAR THE BRANCH LIBRARIES
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THE CENTRAL CHILDREN'S ROOH DONNELL -RY CENTER 20 WEST 53 STREET NEW YORK, N.Y. 10019
SUCH NONSENSE!
CAROLYN WELLS
THE PRINCESS PERILLA
Lore has wings, — so people say; And thus love-letters fly aivay.
By Florence Lundborg
SUCH NONSENSE!
» ^j
An Anthology
BY
CAROLYN WELLS
AUTHOR OF "FAULKNER'S FOLLY," "THE BRIDE OF A MOMENT.'"*
"THE ROOM WITH THE TASSELS," "THE NONSENSE ANTHOLOGY. •"*
"THE WHIMSEY ANTHOLOGY," ETC.
NEW XSJT YORK GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
COPYRIGHT, 1918, BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
"f ft r\ »-r . /
J *J JL / " w
J 1 98845
DEDICATION
THIS MASTERPIECE OF LITERATURE
AND ART
TO
HARRIET SPRAGUE
MY FRIEND OF THE COMRADE HEART.
AND MAY THE JINGLE OF THE CAP AND BELLS
REMIND HER NOW AND THEN OF
CAROLYN WELLS
i
FOREWORD
This book, I have no sort of doubt, Will be commended by the critics;
'Twill be much praised and talked about By connoisseurs of analytics.
Though here and there some grouch may guy it,
'Most every one will rush to buy it.
'Tis not as easy as it seems ;
Not every bard may write Such Nonsense ; The able wits who chose these themes
Placed for the time a ban upon sense ; Doffed cap and gown that they were wearing, And forth in cap and bells went faring.
You'll find here verse by youngsters smart, And by great minds of rank and splendour;
From masterhands of lyric art
Down to the cheapest ballad-vendor.
Some hinting shocks, some boldly reckless,
But every one hand-picked and speckless.
It's hard to make a book like this
A really meritorious volume. You can't collect stuff, hit or miss,
As colyumists make up their colyum ; So much depends on the compiler, And on her skill and technique stylar.
• •
vn
viii FOREWORD
It is a tricky thing to do,
One must have clearest mental vision And perfect taste and judgment true,
To choose with wisdom and precision; I know, with fine evaluation You'll sense my rare discrimination.
There's much debate in many a school On what is balderdash and what art;
I have one simple little rule, Whatever makes me sick is not art.
I'm monarch in my own dominion,
This book is art, — in my opinion.
Don't blame me if you don't agree
Invariably with my selection ; I may have put in two or three
To which you would accord rejection. Waste not your time in vain complaining, Skip those, and read the gems remaining.
I trust that you will buy this book ;
'Twill pleasure me and Mr. Doran ; Think how well on your shelves 'twill look
Standing beside The Cid or Koran. You'll find it so intensely funny, That you'll be glad you blew the money.
Though you'll enjoy the verbal stunts, You know the penalty of laughter;
Don't read the whole book through at once, Or maybe you'll be sorry after.
For, and this is no laughing matter,
You'll laugh so much you may grow fatter.
I've heard it said the wisest men A bit of nonsense oft will relish ;
With my praise it is needless then This volume further to embellish.
As Shakespeare truly says, 'tis silly
To gild gold or handpaint the lily.
CONTENTS
PAGE
THE Two OLD BACHELORS. Edward Lear 17
WONDERS OF NATURE. The Anti- Jacobin 18
THIS Is THE MUSE OF NONSENSE. Gelett Burgess .... 19
BUNCHES OF GRAPES. Walter Ramal 20
To MY NEW PET. Anonymous .20
THERE ARE MEN IN THE VILLAGE OF ERITH. Cosmo Monkhouse 21
A TRAGIC STORY. William Makepeace Thackeray .... 22
THE FASTIDIOUS SERPENT. Henry Johnstone .... 22
ADAM. Captain Harry Graham ....... 24
BREAD AND MILK. Anonymous ....... 24
GOOD AND BAD. George Barr Barker ...... 25
A POEM OF UPLIFT. Anonymous 25
MAVRONE. Arthur Guiterman 26
PERCHANCE. Walter Parke 28
THE THINGUMBOB. Anonymous .28
THE ENDLESS SONG. Ruth McEnery Stuart 28
ON KNOWING WHEN TO STOP. L. J. Bridgman .... 28
THE DYSPEPTIC CANNIBAL. Alfred E. Dickey .... 29
MODERN NATURE LORE. Anonymous 30
THE OLD MAN. Anonymous . . . . . . .30
WING TEE WEE. J. P. Denison 30
MATERNAL COUNSEL. J. G. Francis 31
ERRING IN COMPANY. Franklin P. Adams 31
KINDLY ADVICE. 0. P. Q. Smiff 32
SAINTE MARGERIE. Anonymou-s 33
JABBERWOCKY. Rendered into Latin Elegiacs. Hassard Dodgson 34
DER JAMMERWOCH. Thomas Chatterton 35
SoMEWHERE-iN-EuROPE-WocKY. F. G. Hartswick .... 36
THE JABBERWOCKY PUBLISHERS. Anonymous .... 36
MONA LISA. John Kendrick Bangs 37
FOOTBALLWOCKY. Anonymous 37
ix
CONTENTS
PAGE
THE ASP. Carolyn Wells 38
THE NAPOLEON OF NOTTING HILL. Gilbert Chesterton ... 38
ALL AT SEA. Frederick Moxon 41
THE RIME OF THE BETSY JANE. Bert Lesion Taylor ... 42
THE POST CAPTAIN. Charles E. Carryl 43
THE YARN OF THE "NANCY BELL." W.S.Gilbert. ... 44
THE BALLAD OF THE BILLYCOCK. Anthony C. Deane ... 46
CLASSICAL CRITICISM. George L. Richardson 47
NEMESIS. J. W. Foley 48
REUBEN. Phebe Gary 48
THE UNIVERSAL PRAYER. Grace G. Wiederseim .... 49
DIVIDED DESTINIES. Rudyard Kipling 50
THE NEW VESTMENTS. Edward Lear 51
FROM THE UFFIZI A. B. C. Arthur Maquarie 52
THE LLAMA. Hilaire Belloc ........ 53
ODE TO A BOBTAILED CAT. Anonymovs 54
A LULLABY. Anonymous ........ 54
THE TURTLE AND THE FLAMINGO. James Thomas Fields ... 55
WIDOW BEDOT TO ELDER SNIFFLES. Frances Miriam Whitcher . 58
SONG OF THE SPRINGTIDE. Anonymous 58
THE JIM-JAM KING OF THE Jou-Jous. Alaric Bertrand Stuart . 59
LEPIDOPTERA. Gerald Mygatt 59
FAITHLESS SALLY BROWN. Thomas Hood 60
REVAMPED BY VAMPIRES. Anonymous ...... 61
FROM THE SANSCRIT OF MATABILIWAIJO. Sir Owen Seaman . . 62
To A PET REPTILE. Anonymous 62
BETWEEN THE SUNSET AND THE SEA. R. W. Answell ... 63
LORD GUY. George F. Warren 63
BUY A BAROM: BUY A BAROM. Frank O'Malley .... 64
A STRIKE AMONG THE POETS. From Punch 64
THE CANNY CROCODILE. Anonymous 65
THE PRODIGAL EGG. Anonymous ....... 65
A GRAIN OF SALT. Wallace Irwin 65
MOTHERHOOD. Charles Stuart Calverley 66
SONNET FOR A PICTURE. A. C. Swinburne 66
OUR DUMB FRIENDS. Carolyn Wells 67
HE LOVES A POSTER GIRL. Anonymous 67
His MOTHER-IN-LAW. Anonymous 68
CONTENTS xi
PAGE
BYGONES. Bert Lesion Taylor 68
WE WERE ON THE STARBOARD TACK. Gelett Burgess ... 68
THE HEN-ROOST MAN. Ruth McEnery Stuart .... 69
THE VIPER. Hilaire Belloc ; 70
MANUAL OF MANNERS FOR YOUNG ANIMALS. Anonymous . . 70
THE LEARNED FISH. Hilaire Belloc 70
I WISH THAT MY ROOM HAD A FLOOR. Gelett Burgess ... 71
APPLICATION FOR INSURANCE. Charles Wayland Towne . . 72
CAUTIONARY VERSES. Theodore Hook 74
GOOD JAMES AND NAUGHTY REGINALD. Eugene Field ... 74
ARE WOMEN FAIR? Francis Davison 76
THE PICKERLICK. Anonymous . . . . . .76
A LION EMERGED FROM His LAIR. J. G. Francis .... 77
OLD GRIMES. Albert Gorton Greene 78
ON A NANKIN PLATE. Austin Dobson . . . . .78
THE LEARNED NEGRO. Anonymous 79
GOING WITH THE STREAM. Arthur H. Clough 79
To THE PLIOCENE SKULL. Bret Harte 80
ROBINSON CRUSOE'S STORY. Charles E. Carryl . • . . .81
LINES ON MONTEZUMA. D. F. A 82
AN UTTER PASSION UTTERED UTTERLY. John Todhunter . . H
HUMPTY DUMPTY'S RECITATION. Lewis Carroll .... 83
THE BALLAD OF THE OYSTERMAN. Oliver Wendell Holmes . . 84
A HISTORY. Tom Hood, Jr 84
THE CONVERTED CANNIBALS. G. E. Farrow 85
THE YOUNG GAZELLE. Walter Parke 86
IMAGISTE LOVE LINES. Anonymous 87
I NEVER SAW A PURPLE Cow. Gelett Burgess .... 88 DIVERSIONS OF THE RE-ECHO CLUB — PURPLE Cow Sequence.
Carolyn Wells 88
AH, YES ; I WROTE THE PURPLE Cow. Gelett Burgess ... 91
CLEAN CLARA. W. B. Rands 94
A NEW PAPER FOR BIPEDS. Anonymous 95
IN STATU Quo. Gelett Burgess '« . 96
OUR TRAVELER. H. Cholmondeley-Pennell 99
How A GIRL WAS Too RECKLESS OF GRAMMAR BY FAR. Guy
Wetmore Carryl 100
WILD FLOWERS. Peter Newell 100
xii CONTENTS
PAGE
THE RETIRED PORK-BUTCHER AND THE SPOOK. O. E. Farrow . . 101
LILIES. Don Marquis 103
FRAUD. Anonymous 103
CHRISTMAS CHIMES. Anonymous 103
YE TOWNE GOSSIP. Kenneth C. Beaton . .... 104
L 'ENVOI OP THE CUBISTS. Anonymous 105
BALLADE CRYING ART TO STOP HER NONSENSE. Eugene R. White 106
POST-IMPRESSIONISM. Bert Lesion Taylor 106
A SYMPOSIUM OF POETS. Carolyn Wells 107
STYX RIVER ANTHOLOGY. Carolyn Wells 107
THE NEO-NEOISM. Franklin P. Adams 109
THE MESSED DAMOZEL. Charles Hanson Towne .... 109
ELLEN McJoNES ABERDEEN. William 8. Gilbert .... 110
SOME LITTLE BUG. Roy Atwell 112
THE FABLE OP THE Two MANDOLIN PLAYERS AND THE WILLING
PERFORMER. George Ade 114
A TALE OF THE TROPICS. Anonymous 116
THE LEGEND OP THE FIRST CAM-U-EL. Arthur Guiterman . . 117
OLD DOCTOR MACK. Alfred Pcrcival Graves . . 118
A TAM O'SHANTER DOG. /. G. Francis 120
FOR I AM SAD. Don Marquis 121
A PASTORAL IN POSTERS. Anonymous 121
POETS AND LINNETS. Tom Hood, Jr 122
THE LOST CHORD. Anonymous 122
THE PLAYED-OUT HUMORIST. W. 8. Gilbert 123
THE QUEST OF THE PURPLE Cow. Hilda Johnson .... 124
IF THEY MEANT ALL THEY SAID. Alice Duer Miller . . . 124
A TALE OF FOREIGN LANDS. Anonymous ..... 124
THE ARTIST. By Guy Wetmore Carryl 125
A FABLE. Anonymous 128
How VERY SAD IT Is TO THINK. Rhymes of the Boogin Club . 129
THE COMICAL GIRL. M. Pelham ... ... 130
HINTS ON TABLE ETIQUETTE. Carolyn Wells 131
COUNSEL TO THOSE THAT EAT. Anonymous 138
THE EDITOR'S WOOING. Robert H. Newell ("Orpheus C. Kerr") 138
WORDSWORTHIAN REMINISCENCE. Anonymous . . 139
THE ULTIMATE JOY. Anonymous 139
ETIQUETTE FOR ANY AFRICAN JUNGLE HUNTER. Anonymous . . 140
CONTENTS xiii
PAGE
NIRVANA. Anonymous 140
SCHOOL. J. K. Stephen 140
THE FOOLKILLER'S SONG. Anonymous 141
As EXPANDED. Chicago Tribune 141
THEODORE ROOSEVELT. Captain Harry Graham .... 142
AMAZING FACTS ABOUT FOOD. H. W 143
HOME. Nixon Waterman . -, 143
IVY DE MILLEFLEURS. H. Cholmondeley-Pennell .... 144
THE LAND OF LOO-LA-LEE. Anonymous 145
THE RONDEAU. Anonymous 145
THE MICROBE. Hilaire Belloc 145
MISTER WILLIAM. W. 8. Gilbert 146
THE BOBOLINK. Anonymous 148
HARD PIPING. Anonymous 148
THE TALE OF A DOG. James H. Lambert, Jr 149
FROM AN ALPHABET OF SAINTS. Father Robert Hugh Benson . 149
To MINERVA. Thomas Hood 149
THE WAR: A-Z. John E. Edwards 150
THE LEGEND OF HEINZ VON STEIN. Charles Godfrey Leland . . 150
LOFTY LINES. Anonymous 151
OPTIMISM. H. M 151
BALLAD OF THE PRIMITIVE JEST. Andrew Lang .... 152
LAY OF ANCIENT ROME. Thomas Ybarra 152
A SKETCH. Robert J. Burdette 153
THE FIDDLER OF DOONEY. William Butler Yeats .... 153
ADVICE TO GRANDSONS. Anonymous 153
SONG. J. R. Planche 155
PESSIMISM. M. N 155
WAIL OF A RETURNED TOURIST. Anonymous 156
CONSTANCY. Anonymous 157
HOMCEOPATHIC SOUP. Anonymous 157
SOME HALLUCINATIONS. Lewis Carroll 157
THE DONG WITH THE LUMINOUS NOSE. Edward Lear . . . 158
THE SABINE FARMER'S SERENADE. Father Prout .... 160
FIN DE SIECLE. Anonymous 161
GOOD COUNSEL. Anonymous ........ 162
IN WAIN. Anonymous 162
A HELEN OF TODAY. Anonymous 162
xiv CONTENTS
PAGE
THE PIG. Robert Southey 163
A BALLADE OF BAD WEATHER. Anonymous 165
THE SMOKER'S A. B. C. George B. Morewood .... 165
SELECT PASSAGES FROM A COMING POET. F. Anstey .... 165
THE KILKENNY CATS. Anonymous 166
THE WHITE QUEEN'S RIDDLE. Lewis Carroll . . . . 166
AMPLIFIED SPELLING. Anonymous 167
WHAT You CAN AND WHAT You CAN'T. Anonymous . . . 167
FANCY VERSES. Anonymous 168
THE THRIFTY MAN. Anonymous 168
LITERARY ADVICE TO LOVERS. Anonymous 169
A DARWINIAN BALLAD. Anonymous 169
NORTH, EAST, SOUTH AND WEST. H. A. M 170
IN MEMORIAM TECHNICAM. Thomas Hood, Jr 170
DREAM POEM. Anonymous ........ 171
ANCESTRAL LORE. Anonymous 171
THE WEDDING. Thomas Hood, Jr 172
OUR HYMN. Oliver Wendell Holmes 172
INSPECT Us. Edith Darnell 172
THE BALLAD OF THE EMEU. Bret Harte 173
"KULTURIZED" POETRY. Kenneth F. H. Underwood . . . 174
THE HOMELY PATHETIC. Bret Harte 175
THE AWFUL BUGABOO. Eugene Field 175
THE SONG OF THE JELLYFISH. Jarvis Keiley 176
THE ROMANCE OF THE CARPET. Robert J. Burdette . . . 176
To BE OR NOT TO BE. Anonymous 178
ALL OR NOTHING. Bayard Taylor 178
A PORTRAIT. Oliver Wendell Holmes 178
ALLITERATIVE ABSURDITIES. Anonymous 179
WHY NOT? Anonymous ......... 179
THE CROCODILE. Hilaire Belloc ....... 179
THE MICROBE'S SERENADE. George Ade 180
A SETTIN' HEN. Holmes F. Day 180
THE STORY OF ESAU WOOD. W. E. Southwick 180
THE CUMMERBUND. Edward Lear 181
CUPID'S DARTS. Anonymous 182
SOME PSALM. Anonymous 182
STATELY VERSE. Anonymous ........ 182
CONTENTS xv
PAGE
THUDS FROM THE PADDED CELL. Maurice Smiley .... 183
WORSE AND MORE OF IT. Anonymous 183
RURAL BLISS. Anthony C. Deane 184
A CROSS LADY. Florence Wilkinson 185
THE WHICHNESS OF WHAT. J. A. A 185
A LITTLE SWIRL OF VERS LIBRE. Thomas R. Ybarra . . . 186
Wus, EVER Wus. H. Cholmondeley-Pennell 186
THE HAPPY MAN. Gilles Menage 186
A SYLVAN SCENE. Bayard Taylor 188
AIN'T IT AWFUL, MABEL? John Edward Hazzard . . . . 189
A HOUSE PET. Anonymous 189
MY ANGELINE. Harry B. Smith 190
GHAT. Anonymous 190
A HISTORY OF CIVILIZATION. Thomas Hood the Younger . . 191
THE SICK KNIGHT. F. Anstey 193
A PLEA FOR TRIGAMY. Owen Seaman 193
THE RIVAL MILLENNIUM. A. C. Fitch 194
THE EDUCATED LOVE BIRD. Peter Newell . . . . 194
POST-IMPRESSIONIST POEM. Julian Street 194
THE ROMAUNT OF HUMPTY DUMPTY. Henry S. Leigh . . . 196
To MARY. • Phebe Cory . . 196
A SYMPOSIUM OF POETS. Carolyn Wells 197
THE CONJUROR. Anonymous 202
THE SEAMSTRESS. Anonymous . ' 203
THE PRACTICAL JOKER. W. 8. Gilbert 204
YE TOWNE GOSSIP. Kenneth C. Beaton 205
THE TRANSLATED WAY. Franklin P. Adams 206
THE NAUGHTY DARKEY BOY. Anonymous . . . . . 206
THE BOGUS DIAMOND. Charles Battell Loomis .... 207
THE LOBSTER AND THE MAID. F. E. Weatherly .... 207
SPRING. Alfred E. Dickey 208
THE ANTISEPTIC PLEDGE. Anonymous 208
THE SCARE CROW. -Ruth McEnery Stuart 208
THE GREAT BLACK CROW. Philip James Bailey .... 209
YOUNG LOCHINVAR. Anonymous 209
NATURE STUDIES. Anonymous 211
WHY DOTH A PUSSYCAT? Purges Johnson 211
IF WE DIDN'T HAVE TO EAT. Nixon Watermawn . 212
xvi CONTENTS
PAGE
SCIENTIFIC PROOF? J. W. Foley 212
ODE TO WORK IN SPRINGTIME. Thomas R. Ybarra .... 213
HUMOR. Anonymous 213
THE HERRING. Sir Walter Scott 213
As TO THE WEATHER. Anonymous 213
NATURE FAKIRS' FANCIES. Anonymous 214
AFTER OLIVER. Anonymous 214
NAN'S ADVENTURES Up TO DATE. Anonymous .... 215
VERDANCY. Anonymous 216
A RULE. Anonymous 216
THE MICROBES. Anonymous 216
THE PRIMROSE PATH. H. M 216
PING WING. Anonymous 216
INDIFFERENCE. Anonymous ........ 216
MANILA. Eugene T. Ware 216
SAID OPIE READ TO E. P. ROE. Julian Street and James Mont- gomery Flagg 216
THE BELLS. Anonymous 216
A QUATRAIN. F. P. A 216
WHY? E. P. Stephens 217
A SOLILOQUY. F. C. Burnand 217
CYNICUS TO W. SHAKESPEARE. J. K. Stephen 217
A TRIOLET. John Twig 217
SENEX TO MATT. PRIOR. J. K. Stephen 217
ON THE LATIN GERUNDS. Theodore Hook 217
A PRACTICAL ANSWER. Shirley Brooks 217
ON A SENSE OF HUMOR. Frederick Locker 218
ON A JURY. John Godfrey Saxe 218
MORE WALKS. Anonymous 218
SOME LADIES. Frederick Locker 218
THE CAREFUL PENMAN. Anonymous 218
LOGICAL ENGLISH. Anonymous 218
LOGIC. Anonymous .......... 218
To GELETT BURGESS. F. P. A 219
MADAME SANS Souci. Anonymous 219
THE HUB. Anonymous 219
ANOTHER CITY. Anonymous 219
ADVENTURES OF LITTLE KATY. Anonymous 219
CONTENTS xvii
PAGE
THE MODERN MAID. Anonymous ....... 219
BALLADS OF BAD BABIES. Harry P. Taber 220
TRUTHLESS RHYMES FOR HEARTHLESS HOMES. Anonymous . . 220
UNPERTURBED MAMMA. Anonymous 221
LIMERICKS. 225
MISHAPS OF GENTLE JANE. Carolyn Wells 233
ILLUSTRATIONS
THE PRINCESS PERILLA Frontispiece
PAGE
WE WERE ON THE STARBOARD TACK 44
A MERE MAN 64
ANGLING FOR MERMAIDS 80
THE LARK 90
WILD FLOWERS 106
THE LITTLE RABBIT'S MISTAKE 142
*
WICKED WASTE 178
THE EDUCATED LOVE BIRD 194
•
So HER INTO PRISON HE THREW 198
THE SCARE CROW 208
THERE WAS AN OLD MAN WHO SAID "GEE!" . 216
SUCH NONSENSE!
SUCH NONSENSE!
THE TWO OLD BACHELORS
Two old Bachelors were living in one house;
One caught a Muffin, the other caught a Mouse.
Said he who caught the Muffin to him who caught the Mouse,
"This happens just in time, for we've nothing in the house,
Save a tiny slice of lemon and a teaspoonful of honey,
And what to do for dinner, — since we haven't any money?
And what can we expect if we haven't any dinner
But to lose our teeth and eyelashes and keep on growing thinner?"
Said he who caught the Mouse to him who caught the Muffin, "We might cook this little Mouse if we only had some Stuffin' ! If we had but Sage and Onions we could do extremely well, But how to get that Stuffin' it is difficult to tell !"
And then those two old Bachelors ran quickly to the town And asked for Sage and Onions as they wandered up and down; They borrowed two large Onions, but no Sage was to be found In the Shops or in the Market or in all the Gardens round.
But some one said, "A hill there is, a little to the north, And to its purpledicular top a narrow way leads forth ; And there among the rugged rocks abides an ancient Sage, — An earnest Man, who reads all day a most perplexing page. Climb up and seize him by the toes, — all studious as he sits, — And pull him down, and chop him into endless little bits ! Then mix him with your Onion (cut up likewise into scraps), And your Stuffin' will be ready, and very good — perhaps."
And then those two old Bachelors, without loss of time, The nearly purpledicular crags at once began to climb; And at the top among the rocks, all seated in a nook, They saw that Sage a-reading of a most enormous book.
"You earnest Sage !" aloud they cried, "your book you've read enough in ! We wish to chop you into bits and mix you into Stuffin' !"
17
18
SUCH NONSENSE!
But that old Sage looked calmly up, and with his awful book
At those two Bachelors' bald heads a certain aim he took;
And over crag and precipice they rolled promiscuous down, —
At once they rolled, and never stopped in lane or field or town ;
And when they reached their house, they found (besides their want of
Stuffin') The Mouse had fled — and previously had eaten up the Muffin.
They left their home in silence by the once convivial door; And from that hour those Bachelors were never heard of more.
EDWARD LEAR. Nobody can beat Mr. Lear at his own game.
WONDERS OF NATURE
Ah ! who has seen the mailed lobster rise,
Clap her broad wings, and, soaring, claim the skies?
When did the owl, descending from her bower,
Crop, 'midst the fleecy flocks, the tender flower;
Or the young heifer plunge, with pliant limb,
In the salt wave, and, fish-like, try to swim?
The same with plants, potatoes 'tatoes breed,
The costly cabbage springs from cabbage-seed;
Lettuce to lettuce, leeks to leeks succeed;
Nor e'er did cooling cucumbers presume
To flower like myrtle, or like violets bloom.
THE ANTI-JACOBIN.
Neither can the leopard change his spots.
Portrait of and by W. M. Thackeray
SUCH NONSENSE!
19
This is THE MUSE OF NONSENSE:
See! Preposterously Strained is She;
Her Figures have nor Rule nor Joint And so it's Hard to See the Point! GELETT BURGESS.
20
SUCH NONSENSE!
BUNCHES OF GRAPES
"Bunches of grapes," says Timothy, "Pomegranates pink," says Elaine;
"A junket of cream and a cranberry
tart "For me," says Jane.
"Love-in-a-mist," says Timothy, "Primroses pale," says Elaine;
"A nosegay of pinks and mignonette For me," says Jane.
"Chariots of gold," says Timothy, "Silvery wings," says Elaine;
"A bumpety ride in a waggon of hay For me," says Jane.
WALTER RAMAL. Isn't Jane a duck?
TO MY NEW PET
I love my ichneumon, Its tongue is so queer,
Its ways are so human, It has such a leer.
'Tis fond of the emmet
For dinner and tea But ere you condemn it,
Pray listen to me.
And know that though ants it Delights in so much ;
Its fiercest foe grants it An uncle won't touch.
Tasty little joke, that, about ant and uncle.
jfow**
<r
Signature of a Well-known Artist
SUCH NONSENSE!
There are men in the village of Erith Whom nobody seeth or heareth;
And there looms on the marge
Of the river a barge Which nobody roweth or steereth.
COSMO MONKHOUSB.
Enough to make anybody believe in spooks.
SUCH NONSENSE!
A TRAGIC STORY
There lived a sage in days of yore, And he a handsome pigtail wore; But wondered much and sorrowed
more, Because it hung behind him.
He mused upon this curious case, And swore he'd change the pigtail's
place,
And have it hanging at his face, Not dangling there behind him.
Says he, "The mystery I've found, — I'll turn me round," — he turned him
round ; But still it hung behind him.
Then round and round, and out and in, All day the puzzled sage did spin; In vain — it mattered not a pin, — The pigtail hung behind him.
And right and left, and round about, And up and down, and in and out, He turned ; but still the pigtail stout Hung steadily behind him.
And though his efforts never slack, And though he twist and twirl and
tack,
Alas ! still faithful to his back, The pigtail hangs behind him.
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.
Seems 'sif 'most anybody could write such good nonsense as that, but alas, how few of us could sign such a good name.
THE FASTIDIOUS SERPENT
There was a snake that dwelt in Skye,
Over the misty sea, oh; He lived upon nothing but gooseberry pie
For breakfast, dinner and tea, oh.
Now gooseberry pie — as is very well known, —
Over the misty sea, oh, Is not to be found under every stone,
Nor yet upon every tree, oh.
And being so ill to please with his
meat,
Over the misty sea, oh; The snake had sometimes nothing
eat, And an angry snake was he, oh.
Then he'd flick his tongue and his head
he'd shake,
Over the misty sea, oh, Crying, "Gooseberry pie! For good- ness' sake, Some gooseberry pie for me, oh."
And if gooseberry pie was not to be
had,
Over the misty sea, oh, He'd twine and twist like an eel gone
mad, Or a worm just stung by a bee, oh.
But though he might shout and wriggle about,
Over the misty sea, oh, The snake had often to go without
His breakfast, dinner and tea, oh.
HENRY JOHNSTONE. Lot of human nature in snakes.
SUCH NONSENSE!
*>*tc
Reproduction of a Letter by Sir Walter Burne-Jones
SUCH NONSENSE!
ADAM
"When Eve appeared upon the scene."
In History he holds a place Unique, unparalleled, sublime;
"The First of all the Human Race!" Yes, that was Adam, all the time.
It didu't matter if he burst,
He simply had to get there first.
A simple Child of Nature he,
Whose life was primitive and rude;
His wants were few, his manners free, All kinds of clothing he eschewed, —
He might be seen in any weather,
In what is called "the Altogether!"
The luxuries that we enjoy
He never had, so never missed;
Appliances that we employ
For saving work did not exist;
He would have found them useless too,
Not having any work to do.
He never wrote a business note;
He had no creditors to pay; He was not pestered for his vote,
Not having one to give away; And, living utterly alone, He did not need a telephone.
The joys of indolence he knew, In his remote and peaceful clime,
He did just what he wanted to, Nor ever said he "hadn't time !"
(And this was natural becos
He had whatever time there was.)
His pulse was strong, his health was good,
He had no fads of meat or drink, Of tonic waters, Breakfast Food,
Or Pills for Persons who are Pink; No cloud of indigestion lay Across the sunshine of his day.
And, when he went to bed each night, He made his couch upon the soil;
The glow-worms gave him all his light, (He hadn't heard of Standard Oil) ;-
At dawn he woke, — then slept again,
He never had to catch a train !
A happy, solitary life !
But soon he found it dull, I ween, So thought that he would like a wife, —
When Eve appeared upon the scene.
« * »
And we will draw a kindly veil Over the sequel to this tale.
MORAL
Ye Bachelors, contented be
With what the future holds for you ; Pity the married man, for he
Has nothing to look forward to, — To hunger for with bated breath ! — * * *
(Nothing, that is to say, but Death!) CAPTAIN HARRY GRAHAM.
As pictured above, it doubtless was the greatest dramatic situation of all time!
BREAD AND MILK
Bread and milk are good to eat,
Potatoes are not bad, — But bread and milk's the food for me,
The food for any lad.
The old red cow, she gives the milk, And mother gives the bread;
I put the bread into the milk, Then put both in my head.
This gem of thought is copied ver- batim from an old "First Reader." How small the world is, after all.
SUCH NONSENSE!
A POEM OF UPLIFT
I soar above all earthly scenes,
I soar! I soar! My soul bathes in a sea of dreams,
I soar! I soar!
Above the toiling, moiling1 world, To zenith spaces, star-empearled, My radiant soul is swept and swirled,
I soar! I soar!
ANON.
Precious!
A Letter Heading by Rudyard Kipling GOOD AND BAD
If I was as bad as they say I am, And you were as good as you look,
I wonder which one would feel the
worse If each for the other was took?
GEORGE BARE BAKER.
This remark was made by a, bad, bold convict to his vain, virtuous, visiting chaplain. Tour personal answer to the question is an indication of your char- acter.
SUCH NONSENSE!
MAVRONE One of Those Sad Irish Poems, With Notes
From Arranmore the weary miles I've come;
An' all the way I've heard A Shrawn 1 that's kep' me silent, speechless, dumb,
Not sayin' any word. An' was it then the Shrawn of Eire,2 you'll say,
For him that died the death on Carrisbool? It was not that ; nor was it, by the way,
The Sons of Garnim 3 blitherin' their drool; Nor was it any Crowdie of the Shee,4
Or Itt, or Himm, nor wail of Barryhoo 5 For Barrywhich that stilled the tongue of me.
'Twas but my own heart cryin' out for you
Magraw ! 6 Bulleen, shinnanigan, Boru,
Aroon, Machree, Aboo!7
ARTHUR GUITERMAN.
My favourite of the whole bunch.
1A Shrawn is a pure Gaelic noise, something like a groan, more like a shriek, and most like a sigh of longing.
a Eire was daughter of Carne, King of Connaught. Her lover, Murdh of the Open Hand, was captured by Greatcoat Mackintosh, King of Ulster, on the plain of Carrisbool, and made into soup. Eire's grief on this sad occasion has become proverbial.
* Garnim was second cousin to Manan- nan MacLir. His sons were always sad about something. There were twenty-two of them, and they were all unfortunate in love at the same time, just like a chorus at the opera. "Blitherin' their drool" is about the same as "dreeing their weird."
4 The Shee (or "Sidhe," as I should properly spell it if you were not so igno- rant) were, as everybody knows, the regular, stand-pat, organisation fairies of Erin. The Crowdie was their annual con- vention, at which they made melancholy
sounds. The Itt and Himm were the irregular, or insurgent, fairies. They never got any offices or patronage. See MacAlester, Polity of the Sidhe of West Heath, page 985.
B The Barryhoo is an ancient Celtic bird about the size of a Mavis, with lavender eyes and a black-crape tail. It continu- ally mourns its mate (Barrywhich, fem- inine form), which has an hereditary predisposition to an early and tragic de- mise and invariably dies first.
8 Magraw, a Gaelic term of endearment, often heard on the baseball fields of Donnybrook.
7 These last six words are all that tra- dition has preserved of the original in- cantation by means of which Irish rats were rhymed to death. Thereby hangs a good Celtic tale, which I should be glad to tell you in this note ; but the publishers say that being prosed to death is as bad as being rhymed to death, and that the readers won't stand for any more.
SUCH NONSENSE!
Portrait of and by Alfred De Musset
SUCH NONSENSE!
PERCHANCE
Perchance it was her eyes of blue,
Her cheek that might the rose have
shamed ; Her figure, in proportion true
To all the rules by artists framed; Perhaps it was her mental worth
That made her lover love her so, Perhaps her name or wealth or birth —
I cannot tell — I do not know.
He may have had a rival, who
Did fiercely gage him to a duel, And, being the luckier of the two, Defeated him with triumph cruel. Then she may have proved false, and
turned
To welcome to her arms his foe; Left him despairing, conquered,
spurned, — I cannot tell — I do not know.
WALTER PARKE.
He doesn't seem to know much of anything!
THE THINGUMBOB A Pastel
The Thingumbob sat at eventide, On the shore of a shoreless sea,
Expecting an unexpected attack From something it could not foresee.
A still calm rests on the angry waves, The low wind whistles a mournful
tune, And the Thingumbob sighs to himself,
"Alas, I've had no supper now since noon."
Author, please speak up. I inad- vertently lost his name.
THE ENDLESS SONG
Oh, I used to sing a song, An' dey said it was too long, So I cut it off de en* To accommodate a frien'
Nex' do', nex' do' — To accommodate a frien' nex' do'.
But it made de matter wuss Dan it had been at de fus, 'Ca'ze de en' was gone, an' den Co'se it didn't have no en'
Any mo', any mo' — Oh, it didn't have no en' any mo'!
So, to save my frien' from sinnin', I cut off de song's begin nin'; Still he cusses right along Whilst I sings about my song
Jes so, jes so — Whilst I sings about my song jes so.
How to please 'im is my riddle, So I'll fall back on my fiddle; For I'd stan' myself on en' To accommodate a frien'
Nex' do', nex' do'— To accommodate a frien' nex' do'. RUTH MCENERY STUART.
Alas, friends are all alike.
ON KNOWING WHEN TO STOP
The woodchuck told it all about.
"I'm going to build a dwelling Six stories high, up to the sky!"
He never tired of telling.
He dug the cellar smooth and well But made no more advances;
That lovely hole so pleased his soul And satisfied his fancies.
L. J. BRIDGMAN.
Oh, oft much better off we'd be
If like the woodchuck more were we.
SUCH NONSENSE!
The Interrupted Artist
THE DYSPEPTIC CANNIBAL
EDWABD LEAK.
A cannibal was seated on a green Pacific isle, With the temperature at ninety-nine degrees;
His dress was rather scanty, in the latest savage style, Just a pair of Boston garters round his knees.
But he didn't seem quite happy, for now and then a groan Escaped — which tore his savage breast in two;
And he chanted in a melancholy, meditative tone The ditty that I now repeat to you:
"I've eaten hostile tribesmen without a single question;
I've feasted on the yellow, black and brown; But I never have encountered such a fit of indigestion
As accompanied the minister from town.
"I have tried the Uambago, boiled and roasted, baked and fried ;
I have chewed the woolly Oolah, stuffed with yam; But for all the after symptoms from the dishes we have tried I wouldn't give a Bamballoadam !"
ALFRED E. DICKEY. All the world loves a cannibal.
30
SUCH NONSENSE!
MODERN NATURE LORE
To write of the wonders of Nature
Is now the acceptable dodge : To trace the Nennook's nomenclature,
And learn where the Lorises lodge. To set forth the habits of rabbits,
To sum up the porcupine's spines, To mention the uses of mooses and gooses,
And tell how the ocelot dine_s.
To teach us to know the gorilla,
And how to tell llamas from lambs; About what to chin the chinchilla,
And how best to entertain clams. To post us on pigeons and widgeons,
And tell how to make beavers beave, Or how to inveigle an eagle or beagle
His highest and best to achieve.
To state all the traits of the wombat;
To show why the koulan and vole Are always engaged in a combat —
These stories I swallow down whole. But still with two questions I wrangle,
And help will not come at my call: Why an angleworm hasn't an angle —
And a mongoose is no goose at all !
When Adam named the beasts some woman must have sidled up to him and offered to help.
THE OLD MAN
It was a cold and wintry night, A man stood in the street;
His aged eyes were full of tears, His boots were full of feet.
This verse gets there with both feet, -poetic and human.
WING TEE WEE
Oh, Wing Tee Wee Was a sweet Chinee, And she lived in the town of Tac. Her eyes were blue, And her curling queue Hung dangling down her back; And she fell in love with gay Win Sil When he wrote his name on a laundry bill.
And, oh, Tim Told Was a pirate bold, And he sailed in a Chinese junk; And he loved, ah me! Sweet Wing Tee Wee, But his valiant heart had sunk ; So he drowned his blues in fickle fizz, And vowed the maid would yet be his.
So bold Tim Told Showed all his gold To the maid in the town of Tac; And sweet Wing Wee Eloped to sea, And nevermore came back; For in far Chinee the maids are fair, And the maids are false, — as every- where.
J. P. DENISON.
And yet one can't help feeling that Wing Tee Wee was a dear and a sweet.
Portrait of and by a Well-known Publisher
SUCH NONSENSE!
31
ex
lo kc,r ckilcL, Qxick tor&cApilcxlc ko^la, i^ u,«eou,lk *Vs/h.e/n you, corrce/ ctow/ri ex XJL o rrz.ore' Cctxjtliorz.
*l»
MATERNAL COUNSEL
ERRING IN COMPANY
"If I have erred, I err in company with Abraham Lincoln." — Theodore Roosevelt.
If e'er my rhyming be at fault, If e'er I chance to scribble dope,
If that my metre ever halt, I err in company with Pope.
An that my grammar go awry, An that my English be askew,
Sooth, I can prove an alibi — The Bard of Avon did it too.
If often toward the bottled grape My errant fancy fondly turns,
Remember, leering jackanape, I err in company with Burns.
If now and then I sigh "Mine own!" Unto another's wedded wife,
Remember, I am not alone —
Hast ever read Lord Byron's Life?
If frequently I fret and fume, And absolutely will not smile,
I err in company with Hume, Old Socrates and T. Carlyle.
If e'er I fail in etiquette,
And foozle on The Proper Stuff
Regarding manners, don't forget A. Tennyson's were pretty tough.
Eke if I err upon the side Of talking overmuch of Me,
I err, it cannot be denied, In most illustrious company.
FRANKLIN P. ADAMS.
// cynic comment I essay,
I sin, perhaps, with F. P. A.
32 SUCH NONSENSE!
KINDLY ADVICE
Be kind to the panther ! for when thou wert young,
In thy country far over the sea, 'Twas a panther ate up thy papa and mama,
And had several mouthfuls of thee!
Be kind to the badger! for who shall decide
The depth of his badgery soul? And think of the tapir, when flashes the lamp
O'er the fast and the free flowing bowl.
Be kind to the camel! nor let word of thine
Ever put up his bactrian back; And cherish the she-kangaroo with her bag,
Nor venture to give her the sack.
Be kind to the ostrich ! for how canst thou hope
To have such a stomach as it? And when the proud day of your "bridal" shall come,
Do give the poor birdie a "bit."
Be kind to the walrus ! nor ever forget
To have it on Tuesday to tea; But butter the crumpets on only one side,
Save such as are eaten by thee.
Be kind to the bison ! and let the jackal
In the light of thy love have a share; And coax the ichneumon to grow a new tail,
And have lots of larks in its lair!
Be kind to the bustard, that genial bird,
And humour its wishes and ways; And when the poor elephant suffers from bile,
Then tenderly lace up his stays !
0. P. Q. SMUT.
Included because the author's name is so funny.
SUCH NONSENSE!
SAINTE MARGERIE
Slim feet than lilies tenderer, —
Margerie!
That scarce upbore the body of her, Naked upon the stones they were; —
C'est ga Sainte Margerie!
White as a shroud the silken gown, —
Margerie ! That flowed from shoulder to ankle
down,
With clear blue shadows along it thrown ;
C'est ga Sainte Margerie!
On back and bosom withouten braid, —
Margerie!
In crisped glory of darkling red, Round creamy temples her hair was shed ; —
C'est ga Sainte Margerie!
Eyes, like a dim sea, viewed from far, —
Margerie !
Lips that no earthly love shall mar, More sweet than lips of mortals are; —
C'est Qa Sainte Margerie!
The chamber walls are cracked and bare ; —
Margerie !
Without the gossips stood astare At men her bed away that bare; —
C'est ga Sainte Margerie!
Five pennies lay her hand within, —
Margerie!
So she her fair soul's weal might win, Little she reck'd of dule or teen; —
C'est ga Sainte Margerie!
Dank straw from dunghill gathered, —
Margerie!
Where fragrant swine have made their bed,
Thereon her body shall be laid ; —
C'est Qa Sainte Margerie!
Three pennies to the poor in dole, —
Margerie!
One to the clerk her knell shall toll, And one to masses for her soul; —
C'est ga Sainte Margerie!
This has obliged me to revise entirely my lifelong opinion of Margery Daw.
•ANCHOR- •LINE-
5.5.
Portrait of and by a Well-known New York Editor
34 SUCH NONSENSE!
JABBERWOCKY
Rendered into Latin Elegiacs.
Hora aderat briligi. Nunc et Slythseia Tova
Plurima gyrabant gymbolitare vabo; Et Borogovorum mimzebant undique formae,
Momiferique omnes exgrabuere Rathi.
"Cave, Gaberbocchum moneo tibi, nate cavendum (Unguibus ille rapit. Dentibus ille necat).
Et fuge Jubbubbum, quo non infestior ales, Et Bandersnatcham, quae fremit usque, cave."
Ille autem gladium vorpalem cepit, et hostem
Manxonium longa sedulitate petit; Turn sub tumtummi requiescens arboris umbra
Stabat tranquillus, multa animo meditans.
Dum requiescebat meditans uffishia, monstrum Praesens ecce! oculis cui fera flamma micat,
Ipse Gaberbocchus dumeta per horrida sifflans Ibat, et horrendum burbuliabat iens!
Ter, quater, atque iterum cito vorpalissirnus ensis
Snicsnaecans penitus viscera dissecuit. Exanimum corpus linquens caput abstulit heros
Quocum galurnphat multa, domurnque redit.
"Tune Gaberbocchum potuisti, nate, necare?
Bemiscens, puer ! ad brachia nostra veni. Oh ! frabiusce dies ! iterumque caloque calaque
Laetus eo! ut chortlet chortla superba senex."
Hora aderat briligi. Nunc et Slythseia Tova
Plurima gyrabant gymbolitare vabo; Et Borogovorum mimzebant undique formae,
Momiferique omnes exgrabuere Rathi.
HASSARD DODGSON.
A classic classicised.
SUCH NONSENSE! 35
DER JAMMERWOCH
Es brillig war. Die schliehte Toven
Wirrten und wimmelten in Waben; Und aller-miimsige Burggoven
Die mohmen Rath' ausgrabeu.
Bewahre doch vor Jammerwoch !
Die Zahne knirschen, Krallen kratzen! Bewahr' vor Jubjub — vogel, vor
Frumib'sen Bandersehnatzchen !
Er griff sein vorpals Schwertchen zu,
Er suchte lang das manchsam' Ding; Dann, stehend unten Tumtum Baum,
Er an-zu-denken-fing.
Als stand er tief in Andacht auf,
Des Jammerwochen's Augen-feuer Durch tulgen Wald mit wiffek kam
Ein burbelud ungeheuer!
Eins, swei ! Ems, swei ! Und durch und durcb Sein vorpals Schwert zerschnifer-schniick,
Da bleibt es todt! Er, Kopf in hand Gelaumfig zog zuriick.
Und schlugst Du ja den Jammerwoch ?
Umarme mich, mein Bbhm'sches Kind! 0 Freuden-Tag! 0 Halloo-Schlag!
Er chortelt froh-gesinnt.
Es brillig war. Die schliehte Toven Wirrten und wimmelten in Waben; Und aller-mumsige Burggoven Die mohmen Rath' ausgraben.
THOMAS CHATTERTON. Good work!
36
SUCH NONSENSE!
SOMEWHERE-IN-EUROPE- WOCKY
'Twas brussels, and the loos liege Did meuse and arras in latour;
All vimy were the metz maubege, And the tsing-tau namur.
"Beware the petrograd, my son — The jaws that bite, the claws that plough !
Beware the posen, and verdun The soldan mons glogau !"
He took his dixmude sword in hand;
Long time his altkirch foe he sought ; Then rested he 'neath the Warsaw tree,
And stood awhile in thought.
And as in danzig thought he stood The petrograd, with eyes of flame,
Came ypring through the cracow wood, And longwied as it came.
One two ! One two ! and through and
through
The dixmude blade went snicker- snack ;
He left it dead, and with its head He gallipolied back.
"And hast thou slain the petrograd?
Come to my arms, my krithnia boy! 0 chanak day! Artois! Grenay!"
He woevred in his joy.
'Twas brussels, and the loos liege Did meuse and arras in latour;
All vimy were the metz maubege, And the tsing-tau namur.
F. G. HABTSWICK.
The horrors of war.
THE JABBERWOCKY OF THE PUBLISHERS
Written solely because everybody's doing it
'Twas Harpers, and the Little Browns Did Houghton Mifflin the book;
All Munsey were the Benzigers, And the Doddmeads Outlook.
Beware the Lamsonwolffe, my son, The Lane that's Long, the Heaths that Flood;
The Randmcnally Appleton, And frumious Orange Judd.
He took his Ogilvie in hand
Long time the Doxey Co. he sought;
So Wessels he by the Century, And Scribners as in thought.
And as in Moffatt Yard he stood, The Lippincott with eyes of flame
Bobbs Merrilly through William Wood, And Duffield as it came.
McClurg! McClure! and through and
througher
His Putnam blade went snicker- snack ;
He left it then, and with his Penn He went Macmillan back.
And hast thou found the Henryholt1?
Come to my arms, my Lairdandlee; Oh, Doubleday! Cassell! Callay!
Small Maynard in his glee.
'Twas Harpers, and the Little Browns Did Houghton Mifflin the book;
All Munsey were the Benzigers, And the Doddmeads' Outlook.
SUCH NONSENSE!
37
"MONA LISA"
Mona Lisa, Mona Lisa! Have you gone? Great Julius Caesar! 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 driukin' !
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, 0, 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, 0 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.
Well, maybe this nonsense isn't so sheer as some, but you can see through it anyway.
FOOTBALLWOCKY
'Twas killing, and the muddied coves Did jab and jibber on the grid;
All gory were the football groves, And that halfback, the Kid.
"Beware the Sluggawock, my son, The forward pass, the oft-jarred spine ;
Beware the Tacklebob, and run For good old Umptynine."
He took the football in his hand, Long time another's life he sought;
And then he rested (couldn't stand) Till ambulance was brought.
And bandaged up in bed he rocks, And Sluggawock right from the
game Came lumbering in with fresher
knocks, And left him still more lame.
"Hooroo, hooroo," the whistle blew, The rooters still kept up their cl&ck,
But March hares danced his system
through And dealt him hack on hack.
"And hast thou slain the Sluggawock?
Come to my arms, my squeamish
boy," -Kazoo, kazay," the rooters bray
In seasonable joy.
Not the worst of the Wockys.
38
SUCH NONSENSE!
THE ASP
The asp sat on the aspen leaf, 'Twas shaking mighty bad;
The asp at first gave way to grief, And then became right mad.
Mad in the luny sense, I mean, Demented, crazed, insane;
Rats in his attic, off his bean, Unsettled in the brain.
Vibrating like a stricken gong, The asp cried, wildly, "If
Some guy would only come along And scare this aspen stiff!"
You readily can see from that,
How warped the poor asp's mind, While on the aspen leaf he sat, All shaken by the wind.
Spasm to frenzy seemed to add, Like one of those waves tidal;
Till hydrophobia he had, And mania homicidal.
Perceiving Cleopatra sit
Awaiting of her Mark, In rabid haste the queen he bit,
And left her stiff and stark.
What happened then, I do not know, So do not ask me, please.
I cannot tell you even though You beg and coax and tease,
Or plead until for breath you gasp,
'Twill be of no avail; For all I know about that asp
Is written in this tale.
Queer things, asps.
THE NAPOLEON OF NOTTING HILL
"In a hollow of the grey-green hills of rainy Ireland lived an old, old woman, whose uncle was always Cam- bridge at the Boat Race. But in her grey-green hollows, she knew nothing of this; she didn't even know that there was a Boat Race. Also she did not know that she had an uncle. She had heard of nobody at all, except of George the First, of whom she had heard (I know not why), and in whose historical memory she put her simple trust. And by and by, in God's good time, it was discovered that this uncle of hers was not really her uncle, and they came and told her so. She smiled through her tears, and said only, 'Virtue is its own reward."
GILBERT K. CHESTERTON. A Humourometer.
Portrait of, but not by, a Well-known Compiler of Humorous Anthologies
SOME NAUTICAL BALLADS
A Nautical Fancy by MSlanie E. Norton
ALL AT SEA
The Voyage of a Certain Uncertain Sailorman,
I saw a certain sailorman who sat beside the sea,
And in the manner of his tribe he yawned this yarn to me:
" 'Twere back in eighteen-fifty-three, or mebbe fifty-four,
I skipped the farm, — no, 't were the shop, — an' went to Baltimore.
I shipped aboard the Lizzie — or she might ha' bin the Jane;
Them wimmin names are mixey, so I don't remember plain;
But anyhow, she were a craft that carried schooner rig,
(Although Sam Swab, the bo'sun, alias swore she were a brig) ;
We sailed away from Salem Town, — no, lemme think; — 't were Lynn, —
An' steered a course for Africa (or Greece, it might ha' bin) ;
But anyway, we tacked an' backed an' weathered many a storm —
Oh, no, — as I recall it now, that week was fine an' warm!
Who did I say the cap'n was? I didn't say at all"?
Wa-a-11 now, his name were 'Lijah Bell — or was it Eli Ball?
I kinder guess 't were Eli. He'd a big, red, bushy beard —
No-o-o, come to think, he allus kept his whiskers nicely sheared.
But anyhow, that voyage was the first I'd ever took,
An' all I had to do was cut up cabbage for the cook;
But come to talk o' cabbage just reminds me, — that there trip
Would prob'ly be my third one, on a Hong Kong clipper-ship.
The crew they were a jolly lot, an' used to sing 'Avast' I think it were, or else 'Ahoy,' while bailing out the mast. And as I recollect it now, — '
But here I cut him short,
And said: "It's time to tack again, and bring your wits to port; I came to get a story both adventurous and true, And here is how I started out to write the interview: 'I saw a certain sailorman,' but you turn out to be The most Mw-certain sailorman that ever sailed the sea !"
He puffed his pipe, and answered, "Wa-a-11, I thought 'twere mine, but
still, I must ha' told the one belongs to my twin brother Bill!"
FREDERICK MOXON.
Lovable old sailor man. 1 do detest those smug people who are always "sure of their facts."
41
SUCH NONSENSE!
THE EIME OF THE BETSY JANE A manuscript found in a bottle
It was the good ship Betsy Jane, That sailed in a spanking breeze,
With a bunch of militant Suffs on board,
Condemned to an island unexplored, In far off southern seas.
The Suffs they went on a hunger strike,
And nothing eat would they, So the skipper, a conscientious man, Was forced to the forcible feeding
plan, In the genteel British way.
A squall came up and the ship went
down,
And we of the Betsy Jane Were left on the raft in a dreadful
plight,
With never a friendly sail in sight, On the well-known raging main.
Our skipper, a conscientious man, Divided the grub with care.
Says he: "It's share and share alike;
You dames can eat or stay on strike, But damme ! there's your share."
The waves ran high, the grub ran low,
And never a sail we saw, The Suffs they scorned the pork and
bread, And "Votes for Wimmen !" was all
they said, And never a chaw they'd chaw.
The starving crew of the Betsy Jane
They watched their end draw near; Till, "Blast my eyes !" said Bosun Bill, "If they won't eat their chuck, 1 will !" And the rest of us give a cheer.
But the skipper, a conscientious man,
A pistol huge drew he. "Who touches a hunk of yonder bread Dies like a dog! Back up!" he said,
And
• •••••
Right here the tale in the bottle
stopped,
And left me on tiptoe; For how they straightened the matter
out,
Or whether their fate is still in doubt, I'd jolly well like to know.
BERT LESTON TAYLOR. Once more the Nautical Ballad.
Portrait of and by Hatching
SUCH NONSENSE! 43
THE POST CAPTAIN
When they heard the Captain humming and beheld the dancing crew, On the "Royal Biddy" frigate was Sir Peter Bornbazoo; His mind was full of music and his head was full of tunes, And he cheerfully exhibited on pleasant afternoons.
He could whistle, on his fingers, an invigorating reel,
And could imitate a piper on the handles of the wheel;
He could play in double octaves, too, all up and down the rail,
Or rattle off a rondo on the bottom of a pail.
Then porters with their packages and bakers with their buns, And countesses in carriages and grenadiers with guns, And admirals and commodores arrived from near and far, To listen to the music of this entertaining tar.
When they heard the captain humming and beheld the dancing crew, The commodores severely said, "Why, this will never do !" And the admirals all hurried home, remarking, "This is most Extraordinary conduct for a captain at his post."
Then they sent some sailing-orders to Sir Peter, in a boat, And he did a little fifing on the edges of the note; But he read the sailing orders, as of course he had to do, And removed the "Royal Biddy" to the Bay of Boohgabooh.
Now, Sir Peter took it kindly, but it's proper to explain He was sent to catch a pirate out upon the Spanish Main. And he played, with variations, an imaginary tune On the buttons of his waistcoat, like a jocular bassoon.
Then a topman saw the pirate come a-sailing in the bay, And reported to the captain in the ordinary way. "I'll receive him," said Sir Peter, "with a musical salute," And he gave some imitations of a double-jointed flute.
Then the Pirate cried derisively, "I've heard it done before !" And he hoisted up a banner emblematical of gore. But Sir Peter said serenely, "You may double-shot the guns While I sing my little ballad of 'The Butter on the Buns.'"
Then the Pirate banged Sir Peter and Sir Peter banged him back, And they banged away together as they took another tack. Then Sir Peter said, politely, "You may board him, if you like," And he played a little dirge upon the handle of a pike.
44
SUCH NONSENSE!
Then the "Biddies" poured like hornets down upon the Pirate's deck And Sir Peter caught the Pirate and he took him by the neck, And remarked, "You must excuse me, but you acted like a brute When I gave my imitation of that double-jointed flute."
So they took that wicked Pirate and they took his wicked crew, And tied them up with double knots in packages of two. And left them lying on their backs in rows upon the beach With a little bread and water within comfortable reach.
Now the Pirate had a treasure (mostly silverware and gold), And Sir Peter took and stowed it in the bottom of his hold; And said, "I will retire on this cargo of doubloons, And each of you, my gallant crew, may have some silver spoons."
Now commodores in coach-and-fours and corporals in cabs, And men with carts of pies and tarts and fishermen with crabs, And barristers with wigs, in gigs, still gather on the strand, But there isn't any music save a little German band.
CHARLES E. CARRTL. A Tip-topper.
THE YARN OF THE NANCY BELL
'Twos on the shores that round our coast
From Deal to Ramsgate span, That I found alone on a piece of stone
An elderly naval man.
His hair was weedy, his beard was
long,
And weedy and long was he, And I heard this wight on the shore
recite In a singular minor key:
"Oh, I am a cook, and a captain bold, And the mate of the Nancy brig,
And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite, And the crew of the captain's gig!"
And he shook his fists and he tore his
hair, Till I really felt afraid,
For I couldn't help thinking the man
had been drinking, And so I simply said:
"Oh, elderly man, it's little I know Of the duties of men of the sea,
And I'll eat my hand if I understand How you can possibly be
"At once a cook, and a captain bold, And the mate of the Nancy brig,
And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite, And the crew of the captain's gig."
Then he gave a hitch to his trousers, which
Is a trick all seamen larn, And having got rid of a thumpin' quid,
He spun this painful yarn :
" 'Twas in the good ship Nancy Bell That we sailed to the Indian Sea,
And there on a reef we come to grief, Which has often occurred to me.
WE WERE ON THE STARBOARD TACK, THE MATE BEING ON THE WATCH. AND THE CAPTAIN PACING THE DECK, WHEN THC BOATSWAIN PIPED AL1 HANDS ON DECK."
By Gelctt Burgess
You see, the bo' sun piped the mast, — (That's why it doesn't rhyme) ; For though they called the Captain fast, The mate ivas right on time!
SUCH NONSENSE!
45
"And pretty nigh all o' the crew was drowned
(There was seventy-seven o' soul), And only ten of the Nancy's men
Said 'Here !' to the muster roll.
"There was me, and the cook, and the
captain bold,
And the mate of the Nancy brig, And the bo'sun tight, and a midship- mite, And the crew of the captain's gig.
"For a month we'd neither wittles nor drink,
Till a-hungry we did feel, So we drawed a lot, and accordin' shot
The captain for our meal.
"The next lot fell to the Nancy's mate, And a delicate dish he made;
Then our appetite with the midshipmite We seven survivors stayed.
"And then we murdered the bo'sun
tight,
And he much resembled pig; Then we wittled free, did the cook
and me, On the crew of the captain's gig.
"Then only the cook and me was left, And the delicate question, 'Which
Of us two goes to the kettle f arose, And we argued it out as sich.
"For I loved that cook as a brother,
I did,
And the cook he worshipped me; But we'd both be blowed if we'd either
be stowed In the other chap's hold, you see.
" Til be eat if you dines of me,' says Tom;
'Yes, that,' says I, 'you'll be.' 'I'm boiled if I die, my friend,' quoth I ;
And 'Exactly so,' quoth he.
"Says he, 'Dear James, to murder me
Were a foolish thing to do, For don't you see that you can't cook me
While I can — and will — cook you?'
"So he boils the water, and takes the
salt
And the pepper in portions true (Which he never forgot), and some
chopped shalot And some sage and parsley too.
" 'Come here,' says he, with a proper pride,
Which his smiling features tell, ' 'Twill soothing be if I let you see
How extremely nice you'll smell.'
"And he stirred it round and round and
round, And he sniffed at the foaming
broth —
When I ups with his heels, and smoth- ers his squeals In the scum of the boiling broth.
"And I eat that cook in a week or less,
And — as I eating be The last of his chops, why, I almost
drops,
For a wessel in sight I see. * * * * #
"And I never grieve, and I never smile, And I never larf nor play;
But I sit and croak, and a single joke I have — which is to say :
"Oh, I am a cook, and a captain bold.
And the mate of the Nancy brig, And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite,
And the crew of the captain's gig!"
W. S. GILBERT. The best of the elderly naval ballads.
46 SUCH NONSENSE!
THE BALLAD OF THE BILLYCOCK
It was the good ship Billycock, with thirteen men aboard, Athirst to grapple with their country's foes, —
A crew, 'twill be admitted, not numerically fitted To navigate a battleship in prose.
It was the good ship Billycock put out from Plymouth Sound,
While lustily the gallant heroes cheered, And all the air was ringing with the merry bo'sun's singing,
Till in the gloom of night she disappeared.
But when the morning broke on her, behold, a dozen ships,
A dozen ships of France, around her lay, (Or if that isn't plenty, I will gladly make it twenty,)
And hemmed her close in Salamander Bay.
Then to the Lord High Admiral there spake a cabin boy;
"Methinks," he said, "the odds are somewhat great, And, in the present crisis, a cabin boy's advice is,
That you and France had better arbitrate."
"Pooh !" said the Lord High Admiral, and slapped his lordly chest, "Pooh! that would be both cowardly and wrong;
Shall I, a gallant fighter, give the needy ballad writer No suitable material for song?"
"Nay, — is the shorthand writer here? I tell you, one and all,
I mean to do my duty as I ought; With eager satisfaction let us clear the decks for action
And fight the craven Frenchmen!" So they fought.
And (after several stanzas which as yet are incomplete,
Describing all the fight in epic style) When the Billycock was going, she'd a dozen prizes towing
(Or twenty, as above) in single file.
Ah, long in glowing English hearts the story will remain,
The memory of that historic day, And, while we rule the ocean, we will picture with emotion
The Billycock in Salamander Bay!
P. S. I've lately noticed that the critics, who, I think,
In praising my productions are remiss — Quite easily are captured, and profess themselves enraptured,
By patriotic ditties such as this.
SUCH NONSENSE! 47
For making which you merely take some dauntless Englishmen,
Guns, heroism, slaughter and a fleet- Ingredients you mingle in a meter with a jingle,
And there you have your masterpiece complete.
Why, then, with labour infinite, produce a book of verse,
To languish on the "All at Twopence" shelf? The ballad bold and breezy comes particularly easy —
I mean to take to writing it myself!
ANTHONY C. DEANE.
When in doubt write a nautical ballad.
CLASSICAL CRITICISM 21 B. c.
Old Horace, on a summer afternoon, Well primed with sweet Falernian, let us say, Lulled by the far-off brooklet's drowsy croon To a half -doze; in a hap-hazard way Scratched off a half a dozen careless rhymes, As was his habit. When next day he came Awake to work, he read them several times In vain attempt to catch their sense and aim. "What was I thinking about? Blest if I know! Jupiter! What's the difference? — Let them go."
1888 A. D.
"Lines twelve to twenty are in great dispute,"
(Most learnedly the lecturer doth speak)
"I think I shall be able to refute
Orelli's claim they're taken from the Greek.
I think, with Bentley, Horace's purpose here
Is irony, and yet I do not know
But Dillenburger's reading is more clear
For which he gives eight arguments, although
Wilkins gives twelve objections to the same."
(So on ad infinitum.) Such is fame.
GEORGE L. RICHARDSON.
Oh, you College Professors!
48
SUCH NONSENSE!
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 back- stairs 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.
Favouring the theory of Individual Infernos.
REUBEN
That very time I saw, (but thou
couldst not), Walking between the garden and the
barn, Reiiben, all armed; a certain aim he
took At a young chicken, standing by a
post, And loosed his bullet smartly from his
gun, As he would kill a hundred thousand
hens. But I might see young Reuben's fiery
shot Lodged in the chaste board of the
garden fence,
And the domesticated fowl passed on, In henly meditation, bullet free.
PHEBE GARY.
Miss Phebe Gary was one of the salt of the Earth. And if her lines aren't as well known as Shakespeare's, it's because he beat her to it.
The Universal Prayer.
50 SUCH NONSENSE!
DIVIDED DESTINIES
It was an artless Bandar, and he danced upon a pine,
And much I wondered how he lived, and where the beast might dine,
And many, many other things, till, o'er my morning smoke,
I slept the sleep of idleness and dreamed that Bandar spoke.
He said : "Oh, man of many clothes ! sad crawler on the Hills ! Observe, I know not Ranken's shop, nor Ranken's monthly bills! I take no heed to trousers or the coats that you call dress; Nor am I plagued with little cards for little drinks at Mess.
"I steal the bunnia's grain at morn, at noon and eventide (For he is fat and I am spare), I roam the mountainside, I follow no man's carriage, and no, never in my life Have I flirted at Peliti's with another Bandar's wife.
"Oh, man of futile fopperies — unnecessary wraps; I own no ponies in the Hills, I drive no tall-wheeled traps; I buy me not twelve-button gloves, 'short-sixes' eke, or rings, Nor do I waste at Hamilton's my wealth on pretty things.
"I quarrel with my wife at home, we never fight abroad;
But Mrs. B. has grasped the fact I am her only lord.
I never heard of fever — dumps nor debts depress my soul;
And I pity and despise you !" Here he pouched my breakfast-roll.
His hide was very mangy and his face was very red, And undisguisedly he scratched with energy his head. His manners were not always nice, but how my spirit cried To be an artless Bandar loose upon the mountainside !
So I answered: "Gentle Bandar, an inscrutable Decree Makes thee a gleesome, fleasome Thou, and me a wretched Me. Go ! Depart in peace, my brother, to thy home amid the pine ; Yet forget not once a mortal wished to change his lot with thine."
RUDYARD KIPLING.
You can't help liking the Bandar.
SUCH NONSENSE! 51
THE NEW VESTMENTS
There lived an old man in the kingdom of Tess, Who invented a purely original dress; And when it was perfectly made and complete, He opened the door and walked into the street.
By way of a hat he'd a loaf of Brown Bread,
In the middle of which he inserted his head;
His Shirt was made up of no end of dead Mice,
The warmth of whose skins was quite fluffy and nice;
His Drawers were of Rabbit-skins, so were his Shoes,
His Stockings were skins, but it is not known whose;
His Waistcoat and Trowsers were made of Pork Chops .J
His Buttons were Jujubes and Chocolate Drops.
His Coat was all Pancakes with Jam for a border,
And a girdle of Biscuits to keep it in order.
And he wore over all, as a screen from bad weather,
A Cloak of green Cabbage leaves, stitched all together.
He had walked a short way, when he heard a great noise
Of all sorts of Beasticles, Birdlings and Boys;
And from every long street and dark lane in the town
Beasts, Birdies and Boys in a tumult rushed down.
Two Cows and a Calf ate his Cabbage leaf Cloak;
Four Apes seized his girdle which vanished like smoke;
Three Kids ate up half of his Pancaky Coat,
And the tails were devoured by an ancient He Goat.
An army of Dogs in a twinkling tore up his
Pork Waistcoat and Trowsers to give to their Puppies;
And while they were growling and mumbling the Chops
Ten Boys prigged the Jujubes and Chocolate Drops.
He tried to run back to his house, but in vain,
For scores of fat Pigs came again and again;
They rushed out of stables and hovels and doors,
They tore off his Stockings, his Shoes and his Drawers.
And now from the housetops with screechings descend
Striped, spotted, white, black and grey Cats without end;
They jumped on his shoulders and knocked off his hat,
When Crows, Ducks and Hens made a mincemeat of that.
They speedily flew at his sleeves in a trice
And utterly tore up his Shirt of dead Mice;
They swallwed the last of his Shirt with a squall, —
Whereon he ran home with no clothes on at all.
52 SUCH NONSENSE!
And lie said to himself as he bolted the door, "I will not wear a similar dress any more, Any more, any more, any more, nevermore!"
EDWARD LEAR.
Darling old man!
FROM THE UFFIZI ABC
B is Botticelli, a crazy sort of man,
Who like many at the moment when the pagan craze began,
Confused Saint Paul and Socrates, and muddled gods and saints
Till he drew a Virgin Mary with his box of Venus paints.
There is something very lovely in his easy, flowing grace,
And his airiness of fancy and his gentleness of face,
The softness of his colours, and his evident delight
In catching pretty contours, and in getting most things right.
Friend Berenson has shown us — and we bow and hearken dumb —
He prefers an ample earlobe and a squarish type of thumb;
And any girl will tell you he was artful in his ways
When he made his rapt Madonnas wear their hair like Edna May's.
ARTHUR MAQUARIE.
FROM THE UFFIZI ABC
N is Bicci Neri. If you didn't know before, You can see his panel paintings hanging in the corridor. There, if my memory serves rue, you will find a lady saint With a nice magenta petticoat, well handled — in the paint. (She was probably his model, whom the artist used to pose For the Virgin, or St. Mary, or St. Any-one-he-chose. And I fear such model friendships do not have a model close. Alack! how many painted saints each generation knows! How oft we find magenta is not true couleur de rose. 'Nay, the desert of each of us, S. Johnson says, is blows.) I grant you Neri doesn't rank among the greatest men, But he does me this politeness, to begin his name with N.
ARTHUR MAQUARIE.
The other twenty-four are great!
SUCH NONSENSE!
THE LLAMA
The Llama is a woolly sort of fleecy, hairy goat, With an indolent expression and an undulating throat,
Like an unsuccessful literary man.
And I know the place he lives in (or at least I think I do) It is Ecuador, Brazil or Chile — possibly Peru;
You must find it in the Atlas if you can.
The Llama of the Pampases you never should confound (In spite of a deceptive similarity of sound,) With the Lhama who is Lord of Turkestan.
For the former is a beautiful and valuable beast, But the latter is not loveable nor useful in the least; And the Ruminant is preferable surely to the Priest Who battens on the woful superstitions of the East, The Mongol of the Monastery of Shan.
HILAIRE BELLOC.
SUCH NONSENSE!
ODE TO A BOBT AILED CAT
Felis Infelix ! Cat unfortunate,
With nary narrative ! Canst thou no tail relate Of how (Miaow !) Thy tail end came to terminate so
bluntly
Didst wear it off by Sedentary habits As do the rabbits?
Didst go a
Fishing with it, Wishing with it To "bob" for catfish, And get bobbed thyself? Curses on that fish!
Didst lose it in kittenhood, Hungrily chawing it?
Or, gaily pursuing it, Did it make tangent
From thy swift circuit?
Did some brother Greyback — Yowling And howling
In nocturnal strife,
Spitting and staring Cursing and swearing, Ripping and tearing, Calling thee "Sausagetail,"
Abbreviate thy suffix?
Or did thy jealous wife
Detect yer In some sly flirtation,
And, after caudal lecture, Bite off thy termination? And sarve yer right !
Did some mischievous boy, Some barbarous boy, Eliminate thy finis? (Probably!) The wretch ! The villain! Cruelly spillin' Thy innocent blood !
Furiously scratch him Where'er yer may catch him !
Well, Bob, this course now is left, Since thus of your tail you're bereft :
Tell your friend that by letter
From Paris You have learned the style there is
To wear the tail short,
And the briefer the better ;
Such is the passion, That every Grimalkin will
Follow your fashion.
ANON.
Perhaps it was a Manx cat, to begin with.
A LULLABY
A little old man came riding by.
Says I, says I.
Says I : "Old man, your horse will die."
Says I, says I. "And, if he dies, I'll tan his skin."
Says he, says he, "And, if he lives, I'll ride him agin."
Says he, says he.
The lure of a lullaby lies in its lilting refrain.
SUCH NONSENSE! 55
THE TURTLE AND FLAMINGO
A lively young turtle lived down by the banks Of a dark rolling stream called the Jingo ; And one summer day, as he went out to play, Fell in love with a charming flamingo — An enormously genteel flamingo ! An expansively crimson flamingo ! A beautiful, bouncing flamingo!
Spake the turtle, in tones like a delicate wheeze:
"To the water I've oft seen you in go,
And your form has impressed itself deep on my shell,
You perfectly modelled flamingo !
You tremendously A-l flamingo !
You in-ex-press-i-ble flamingo !
"To be sure, I'm a turtle, and you are a belle,
And my language is not your fine lingo;
But smile on me, tall one, and be my bright flame,
You miraculous, wondrous flamingo!
You blazingly beauteous flamingo !
You turtle-absorbing flamingo!
You inflammably gorgeous flamingo !"
Then the proud bird blushed redder than ever before,
And that was quite un-nec-es-sa-ry,
And she stood on one leg and looked out of one eye,
The position of things for to vary, —
This aquatical, musing flamingo !
This dreamy, uncertain flamingo!
This embarrassing, harassing flamingo !
Then she cried to the quadruped, greatly amazed:
"Why your passion toward me do you hurtle?
I'm an ornithological wonder of grace,
And you're an illogical turtle, —
A waddling, impossible turtle !
A low-minded, grass-eating turtle!
A highly improbable turtle!"
Then the turtle sneaked off with his nose to the ground
And never more looked at the lasses;
And falling asleep, while indulging his grief,
Was gobbled up whole by Agassiz, —
The peripatetic Agassiz !
The turtle-dissecting Agassiz !
The illustrious, industrious Agassiz!
56
SUCH NONSENSE!
Go with me to Cambridge some cool, pleasant day,
And the skeleton lover I'll show you;
He's in a hard case, but he'll look in your face,
Pretending (the rogue!) he don't know you!
Oh, the deeply deceptive young turtle!
The double-faced, glassy-cased turtle!
The green but a very mock turtle!
JAMES THOMAS FIELDS.
Pff*tf'"+,c<x>*' Soyj eXfttt only a. lsi'Jt*KC\ of an. ounce, e j,fr, an* tAc n,..ff- key CJut-ftr ,e*t •**.&!
»o.y fort', i tit art /X" ef Aft ujoi*. *
realty fflf tfr it tt*. •tt**.d
THE SCAffTY
LEWIS CABSOLL.
SUCH NONSENSE!
57
Studies
W. S. GILBERT.
58
SUCH NONSENSE!
WIDOW BEDOTT TO ELDER SNIFFLES
0 reverend sir, I do declare It drives me most to frenzy,
To think of you a-lying there Down sick with influenzy.
A body'd thought it was enough To mourn your wife's departer,
Without sich trouble as this ere To come a-follerin' arter.
But sickness and affliction Are sent by a wise creation,
And always ought to be underwent By patience and resignation.
0, I could to your bedside fly, And wipe your weeping eyes,
And do my best to cure you up, If 'twouldn't create surprise.
It's a world of trouble we tarry in, But, Elder, don't despair;
That you may soon be movin' again Is constantly my prayer.
Both sick and well, you may depend
You'll never be forgot By your faithful and affectionate friend,
PKISCILLA POOL BEDOTT.
Frances Miriam Whitcher.
The stuff that made our grandsires chuckle.
SONG OF THE SPRINGTIDE
0 Season supposed of all free flowers, Made lovely by light of the sun,
Of garden, of field, and of tree-flowers, Thy singers are surely in fun !
Or what is it wholly unsettles
Thy sequence of shower and shine,
And maketh thy pushings and petals To shrivel and pine?
Why is it that o'er the wild waters
That beastly North-Easter still blows, Dust-dimming the eyes of our daugh- ters,
Blue-nipping each nice little nose? Why is it these sea-skirted islands
Are plagued with perpetual chills, Driving men to Italian or Nile-lands From Albion's ills?
Happy he, 0 Springtide, who hath
found thee,
All sunlit, in luckier lands, With thy garment of greenery round
thee,
And belted with blossomy bands. From us by the blast thou art drifted,
All brag of thy beauties is bosh; When the songs of thy singers are sifted,
They simply won't wash.
What lunatic lune, what vain vision,
Thy laureate, Springtide, may move To sing thee, — oh, bitter derision ! A season of laughter and love? You make a man mad beyond measure, 0 Spring, and thy lauders like thee: Thy flowers, thy pastimes and pleas- ures,
Are fiddlededee!
And, except for the above, so are the Spring poems.
SUCH NONSENSE!
59
THE JIM-JAM KING OF THE JOU-JOUS
An Arabian Legend
Far off in the waste of desert sand, The Jim-jam rules in the Jou-jou land: He sits on a throne of red-hot rocks, And moccasin snakes are his curling
locks ; And the Jou-jous have the conniption
fits In the far-off land where the Jim-jam
sits — If things are nowadays as things were
then. Allah il Allah! Oo-aye! Amen!
The country's so dry in Jou-jou land You could wet it down with Sahara
sand,
And over its boundaries the air Is hotter than 'tis — no matter where : A camel drops down completely tanned When he crosses the line into Jou-jou
land — If things are nowadays as things were
then. Allah il Allah! Oo-aye! Amen!
A traveller once got stuck in the sand On the fiery edge of Jou-jou land; The Jou-jous they confiscated him, And the Jim -jam tore him limb from
limb;
But, dying, he said: "If eaten I am, I'll disagree with this Dam-jim-jam ! He'll think his stomach's a Hoodoo's
den !" Allah il Allah ! Oo-aye ! Amen !
Then the Jim- jam felt so bad inside, It just about humbled his royal pride. He decided to physic himself with
sand, And throw up his job in the Jou-jou
land.
He descended his throne of red-hot
rocks,
And hired a barber to cut his locks 1 The barber died of the got-'em-again. Allah il Allah ! Oo-aye ! Amen !
And now let every good Mussulman Get all the good from this tale he can. If you wander off on a jamboree, Across the stretch of the desert sea, Look out that right at the height of
your booze You don't get caught by the Jou-jou-
jous !
You may, for the Jim-jam's at it again. Allah il Allah ! Oo-aye ! Amen I
ALARIC BERTRAND STUART.
Queer, wliat a fascination these tropic countries have for us all.
"LEPIDOPTERA"
"Polite, polygamous poltroon, 'twas but his retrograde;
Barbel he was, yet barracoon, this lim- ner of Schlazade.
He spoke a scumbled scuppernong, a scutiform corymb —
Too late, his pride to seep along, too late, indeed, for him.
"To outward view conterminous, to in- ward view adept,
His obfuscation verminous myopic as he wept —
Too late, a gudgeon though it were, in sesquiserried void
Might elevate his soul to her, his chrysoberyloid !"
GERALD MYGATT.
He said he wrote it just to prove how easy it is to write.
60
SUCH NONSENSE!
FAITHLESS SALLY BROWN
Young Ben he was a nice young man,
A carpenter by trade; And he fell in love with Sally Brown,
That was a lady's maid.
But as they fetched a walk one day, They met a press-gang crew;
And Sally she did faint away, Whilst Ben he was brought to.
The boatswain swore with wicked words,
Enough to shock a saint, That though she did seem in a fit,
'Twas nothing but a feint.
"Come, girl," said he, "hold up your head,
He'll be as good as me; For when your swain is in our boat,
A boatswain he will be."
So when they'd made their game of her,
And taken off her elf, She roused, and found she only was
A-coming to herself.
"And is he gone, and is he gone?" She cried, and wept outright:
"Then I will to the water's side, And see him out of sight."
A waterman came up to her, "Now, young woman," said he,
"If you weep on so, you will make Eye-water in the sea."
"Alas! they've taken my beau Ben
To sail with old Benbow;" And her woe began to run afresh,
As if she'd said Gee woe !
Says he, "They've only taken him To the Tender ship, you see."
"The Tender ship," cried Sally Brown, "What a hardship that must be!
"Oh ! would I were a mermaid now,
For then I'd follow him; But oh ! — I'm not a fish-woman,
And so I cannot swim.
"Alas ! I was not born beneath
The Virgin and the Scales, So I must curse my cruel stars,
And walk about in Wales."
Now Ben had sailed to many a place, That's underneath the world;
But in two years the ship came home, And all her sails were furled.
But when he called on Sally Brown,
To see how she went on, He found she'd got another Ben,
Whose Christian name was John.
"0 Sally Brown, 0 Sally Brown, How could you serve me so?
I've met with many a breeze before, But never such a blow."
Then reading on his 'bacco box,
He heaved a bitter sigh, And then began to eye his pipe,
And then to pipe his eye.
And then he tried to sing "All's Well," But could not though he tried;
His head was turned, and so he chewed His pigtail till he died.
His death, which happened in his berth,
At forty-odd befell: They went and told the sexton, and
The sexton toll'd the bell.
THOMAS HOOD.
Dear old Tom Hood. He couldn't "help it, lie was born a pundit.
SUCH NONSENSE!
61
RE\/\MPED
VAMPIRES
Ztt
Large Mosouiio Bough,
A Kc/g of Beer, a Wad oA Gam
er Cov>/ g>esid<2 TD? s/ngio.g
Otrt Wilderness were Rah way
Poem by Eugene R. White. Picture by Dwight R. Collin.
SUCH NONSENSE!
FROM THE SANSCRIT OF MATABILIWAIJO.
Wind ! a word with tbee ! thou goest where my Weil-Preserved lies On her bed of bonny briers keeping off the wicked flies.
Thou shalt know her by th' aroma of her bosom, which is musk, And her ivories that glisten like an elephantine tusk.
Seek her coral-guarded tympanum and whisper "Poppinjai!" And (referring to her lover) kindly add "A-lal-lal-lai !"
Breeze! thou knowest my condition; state it broadly, if you please, In a smattering of Indo-Turco-Perso-Japanese.
Say my youth is flitting freely, and before the season goes From the garden of my Tutsi I am fain to pluck a rose.
Tell her I'm a wanton Sufi (what a Sufi really is
She may know, perhaps — I count it one of Allah's mysteries).
Fly, 0 blessed Breeze, and hither bring me back the net result; Fly as flies the rude mosquito from Abdullah's catapult.
Fly as flies the rusty rickshaw of the Kurumayasan,
When he scents a Hippopotami down the groves of Gulistan.
Fly and cull, 0 cull, a section of my Pipkin's purple tress;
Thou shalt find me drinking deeply with the Lords that rule the mess ;
Quaffing mead and mighty sodas with the Johnis, Lords of War, Talking "jungle in the gun-room" underneath the deodar.
Hoo Tawa! I go to join them; he that cometh late is curst, For the Lords of War (by Akbar) have a most amazing thirst!
SIB OWEN SEAMAN.
I always think Sir Owen must keep a valet to look after Ms words.
TO A PET REPTILE
Thank you, pretty spotted snake, Thus to as your mistress try me.
What a charming pet you make, Cold and creepy, damp and slimy !
How you wriggle up my sleeve. How you coil around my shoulder
Causing visitors to leave Terrifying each beholder.
Come, then, where your breakfast
waits,
Reptile of eccentric habits; Come, and seal the several fates Of three frogs and two plump rab- bits.
The eternal Cleopatra in women!
SUCH NONSENSE!
63
BETWEEN THE SUNSET AND THE SEA
Between the gatepost and the gate I lingered with my love till late; And what cared I for time of night Till wakened by the watchdog's bite, And thud of leathering boxtoed fate Between the gatepost and the gate.
Between the seaside and the sea I kissed my love and she kissed me; But rapturous day was grewsome
night,
And what is love but bloom and blight ? And what is kiss of mine to thee Between the seaside and the sea?
Between the sunshine and the sun I saw a face that hinted fun; But what is fun and what is face When driven at life's killing pace? I simply say that I have none Between the sunshine and the sun.
Between the bumble and the bee, Full many a soul has had to flee; And what is love, may I inquire, When asked to build the kitchen fire? Or who would not leap in the sea Between the bumble and the bee?
Between the teastore and the tea There is a wide immensity; A dollar twenty-five a pound And not a nickel to be found; Then what has fate in store for thee Between the teastore and the tea?
R. W. ANSWELL.
Aught in this rhythm always seems A perfect poem of fair dreams.
LORD GUY
When swallows Northward flew Forth from his home did fare Guy, Lord of Lanturlaire And Lanturlu.
Swore he to cross the brine, Pausing not, night nor day, That he might Paynims slay In Palestine.
Half a league on his way Met he a shepherdess Beaming with loveliness — Fair as Young Day.
Gazed he in eyes of blue — Saw love in hiding there Guy, Lord of Lanturlaire And Lanturlu.
"Let the foul Paynim wait !" Plead Love, "and stay with me. Cruel and cold the sea —
Here's brighter fate."
When swallows Southward flew Back to his home did fare Guy, Lord of Lanturlaire And Lanturlu.
Led he his charger gay Bearing a shepherdess Beaming with happiness — Fair as Young Day.
White lambs, be-ribboned blu Tends now with anxious care, Guy, Lord of Lanturlaire And Lanturlu.
GEORGE F. WARREN.
Oh, Man!
SUCH NONSENSE!
BUY A BAROM ! BUY A BAROM !
And If You Want Any Weather Make It at Home
"What's that which blows across the sky?" said the Bureau-on-Parade. "It is a cloud, it is a cloud," the Chief Forecaster said. "And shall we signal 'watch for storms'?" said the Bureau- on-Parade. "Hell, no; just hang out 'weather fair/ ' ' the Chief Forecaster said. For they're guessing at the weather, cold or sultry, cool or hot, just jab your pencil anywhere and you'll strike it, like as not. Just swing the old barometer, you'll get a reading — what? They're guessing at the weather in the morning.
"And what's the tube a-reading now?" said the Bureau-on-Parade. "It's not for publication — sure?" the Chief Forecaster said.
"No, honest Injun, cross my heart," said the Bureau-on-Parade. "It's thirty, twenty-nine, point, six," the Chief Forecaster said. For they're guessing at the weather and they're guessing deep and hard. Twice seven minions stand the old barometer to guard, for its deep and fateful reading is a secret on the card while they're guessing at the weather in the morning.
"Who's that who glowers by the door?" said the Bureau-on-Parade. "He represents the public press," the Chief Forecaster said. "And shall we give the readings out?" said the Bu- reau-on-Parade. "Say, do you want to spoil the snap?" the Chief Forecaster said. For they're guessing at the weather, you can hear the brain wells go, and there's the old barometer a- reading "High" and "Low," but if the public saw it then the public sure would know how they're guessing at the weather in the morning.
FRANK O'MALLEY.
The man who put the meter in ba- rometer.
A STRIKE AMONG THE POETS
[Conspicuous among the few British industries that have not "come out" re- cently are the ballad makers. But there are signs of trouble even there.]
In his chamber, weak and dying, While the Norman Baron lay,
Loud, without, his men were crying, "Shorter hours and better pay."
Know you why the ploughman, fret- ting,
Homeward plods his weary way Ere his time? He's after getting
Shorter hours and better pay.
See ! the Hesperus is swinging
Idle in the wintry bay, And the skipper's daughter's singing,
"Shorter hours and better pay."
Where's the minstrel boy? I've found him
Joining in the labour fray With his placards slung around him,
"Shorter hours and better pay."
Oh, young Lochinvar is coming;
Though his hair is getting grey, Yet I'm glad to hear him humming,
"Shorter hours and better pay."
E'en the boy upon the burning Deck has got a word to say,
Something rather cross concerning Shorter hours and better pay.
Lives of great men all remind us We can make as much as they,
Work no more, until they find us Shorter hours and better pay.
Hail to thee, blithe spirit! (Shelley) Wilt thou be a blackleg? Nay.
Soaring, sing above the melee, "Shorter hours and better pay." -From PUNCH.
These things are not so easy as they look.
/fv Gilbert U'liilr
A MKRE; MAN
Though now he IKIH none to Fruncr to ///////,
An all-round geniux ix Gilbert White;
Equaled by none, SK >•/><!: sxct? by few,
Tit in fiurtrnit /x of him initl hy him ton.
SUCH NONSENSE!
65
THE CANNY CROCODILE •
There once was a crocodile, old and stout,
And a trifle clumsy at getting about ;
He was chiefly found in the River Nile—
This lumbersonie, cumbersome croco- dile.
Sometimes all day on the sand he'd lie, And deeply and thoughtfully wonder
why. Then he'd smile a slow, inscrutable
smile — This emotional, notional crocodile.
If a friend came by for a cosy chat, He would noisily argue on this or that. His opponent's opinions he would re- vile— This babbling, scrabbling crocodile.
Sometimes he would stand up on the
shore, And declaim in a voice like the ocean's
roar. His sonorous speech could be heard a
mile — This wonderful, thunderf ul crocodile.
You see, by his crafty and subtle art, He made people believe he was clever
and smart. They praised his wisdom, his speech,
his style — This notable, quotable crocodile !
The only page suggestive of tears in tliis whole book.
THE PRODIGAL EGG
An egg of humble sphere By vain ambition stung,
Once left his mother dear When he was very young.
'Tis needless to dilate
Upon a tale so sad; The egg, I grieve to state,
Grew very, very bad.
At last when old and blue, He wandered home, and then
They gently broke it to The loving mother hen.
She only said, in fun,
"I fear you're spoiled, my son !"
That Mother-love!
A GRAIN OF SALT
Of all the wimming doubly blest The sailor's wife's the happiest, For all she does is stay to home And knit and darn — and let
'im
roam.
Of all the husbands on the earth The sailor has the finest berth, For in 'is cabin he can sit And sail and sail — and let 'er knit. WALLACE IRWIN.
And yet, sometimes we see a simple civilian usurping the sailor's preroga- tive.
66
SUCH NONSENSE!
MOTHERHOOD
She laid it where the sunbeams fall Unscann'd upon the broken wall. Without a tear, without a groan, She laid it near a mig-hty stone, Which some rude swain had haply cast Thither in sport, long ages past, And Time with mosses had o'erlaid, And fenced with many a tall grass- blade,
And all about bid roses bloom And violets shed their soft perfume. There, in its cool and quiet bed, She set her burden down and fled : Nor flung, all eager to escape, One glance upon the perfect shape, That lay, still warm and fresh and fair, But motionless and soundless there.
No human eye had rnark'd her pass Across the linden-shadow'd grass Ere yet the minster clock chimed seven : Only the innocent birds of heaven — The magpie, and the rook whose nest Swings as the elm-tree waves his
crest —
And the lithe cricket, and the hoar And huge-lirnb'd hound that guards the
door,
Look'd on when, as a summer wind That, passing, leaves no trace behind, All unapparell'd, barefoot all, She ran to that old ruin'd wall, To leave upon the chill dank earth (For ah! she never knew its worth) 'Mid hemlock rank, and fern, and ling, And dews of night, that precious thing !
And there it might have lain forlorn From morn till eve, from eve to morn : But that, by some wild impulse led, The mother, ere she turn'd and fled, One moment stood erect and high ; Then pour'd into the silent sky A cry so jubilant, so strange, That Alice — as she strove to range
Her rebel ringlets at her glass — Sprang up, and gazed across the grass ; Shook back those curls so fair to see, Clapp'd her soft hands in childish glee, And shriek'd — her sweet face all aglow, Her very limbs with rapture shak-
ing-
"My hen has laid an egg, I know; And only hear the noise she's mak- ing!"
CHARLES STUART CALVERLEY.
A little hen-minded? SONNET FOR A PICTURE
That nose is out of drawing. With a
gasp, She pants upon the passionate lips
that ache With the red drain of her own
mouth, and make
A monochord of colour. Like an asp, One lithe lock wriggles in his rutilant
grasp, Her bosom is an oven of myrrh, to
bake Love's warm white shewbread to a
browner cake. The lock his fingers clench has burst its
hasp.
The legs are absolutely abominable. Ah ! what keen overgust of wild-eyed
woes Flags in that bosom, flushes in that
nose? Nay! Death sets riddles for desire to
spell, Responsive. What red hem earth's
passion sews,
But may be ravenously unripped in hell? A. C. SWINBURNE.
Compared to this conception, the Futurist paintings look like weak tea with milk in it.
SUCH NONSENSE!
67
OUR DUMB FRIENDS
Reformers, wake ! A crying wrong Has been permitted overlong! And wanton cruelty hides behind A so-called "service to mankind."
Ah, save dumb vegetables' life From the too eager kitchen-knife. Their fate contributes not a bit To "scientific benefit."
What torture must a cabbage feel As nearer comes the glittering steel ! And pierces, with a fiendish art, Straight to the tender, quivering heart !
Potatoes suffer without doubt
When ruthless hands their eyes cut
out!
Say, does it aid our humankind When these dumb creatures are made
blind?
Again they wreak their horrid will, Furthering (they say) the aurist's
skill.
Its dumb appeal they treat with scorn, And cut the ears from living corn !
These awful truths should make us
pause
And reconstruct our country's laws; With righteous wrath our blood should
boil At martyred victims of the soil.
Oh, Anti-Vivisectionist,
This portion of your work you've
missed !
And your success is but defeat If man may flay a living beet !
S. P. C. V. attention!
HE LOVES A POSTER GIRL
She was a Poster, so new and so sweet,
And I a pedestrian; She sat on the grass, with six toes on
her feet,
Alas ! for my sorrow began. For she ogled at me with a crimson
leer,
And her nose was so blue, ah, yes. Her dress was transparent, her joints
very queer, But, ah, did I love her the less?
Refrain: (con espressione) Ah, never, no, never no more Shall I know of sweet peace,
alas. For my love is a girl of the
primary tints, And she sits on the purple grass.
The sky at her back was magenta and
slate,
And the sun a delicate grey; She was washing herself, I am able to
state,
With Somebody's Soap all the day. Her arms were too long, and her nose
too short,
Her perspective is wrong, I confess ; There was mud in her eye from a
small boy's sport, But, ah, did I love her the less?
Refrain: (more than ever) Ah, never, no, never no more
Will she set my heart in a whirl, For they've covered her up with a
Bovril bill, My beautiful Poster Girl!
Were Posters the forerunners of Cubist Pictures?
68
SUCH NONSENSE!
HIS MOTHER-IN-LAW
He stood on bis head by the wild sea- shore,
And danced on bis hands a jig; In all his emotions, as never before,
A wildly hilarious grig.
And why? In that ship just crossing the bay
His mother-in-law had sailed For a tropical country far away,
Where tigers and fever prevailed.
Oh, now he might hope for a peaceful
life
And even be happy yet, Though owning no end of neuralgic
wife, And up to his collar in debt.
He had borne the old lady through
thick and thin,
And she lectured him out of breath ; And now as he looked at the ship she
was in He howled for her violent death.
He watched as the good ship cut the
sea,
And bumpishly up-and-downed, And thought if already she qualmish
might be, He'd consider his happiness crowned.
He watched till beneath the horizon's
edge
The ship was passing from view; And he sprang to the top of a rocky
ledge And pranced like a kangaroo.
He watched till the vessel became a
speck
That was lost in the wandering sea; And then, at the risk of breaking his
neck, Turned somersaults home to tea.
Of course, the reference to the mother-in-law is a joke.
BYGONES
Or ever a lick of Art was done,
Or ever a one to care, I was a Purple Polygon,
And you were a Sky-Blue Square.
You yearned for me across a void, For I lay in a different plane,
I'd set my heart on a Red Rhomb oid, And your sighing was in vain.
You pined for me as well I knew, And you faded day by day,
Until the Square that was heavenly
Blue, Had paled to an ashen grey.
A myriad years or less or more,
Have softly fluttered by, Matters are much as they were before.
Except 'tis I that sigh.
I yearn for you, but I have no chance, You lie in a different plane,
I break my heart for a single glance, And I break said heart in vain.
And ever I grow more pale and wan, And taste your old despair,
When I was a Purple Polygon, And you were a Sky-Blue Square. BERT LESTON TAYLOR.
And yet some people don't believe in transmigration of souls.
SUCH NONSENSE!
69
THE HEN-ROOST
De Hen -roost i^lan he'll preach about Paul, An' James an' John, an' Herod, an' all, But nuver a word about Peter, oh, no! He's afeard he'll hear dat rooster crow.
An' he ain't by 'isself in dat, in 'dat — An' he ain't by 'isself in dat.
RUTH McENERY STUABT.
70
SUCH NONSENSE!
THE VIPER
Yet another great truth I record in rny
verse, That some Vipers are venomous, some
the reverse;
A fact you may prove if you try, By procuring two Vipers and letting
them bite; With the first you are only the worse
for a fright, But after the second you die.
HILAIBE BELLOC.
The old game of Perhaps.
MANUAL OF MANNERS FOR YOUNG ANIMALS
Dear Little Tiger, it is rude
To growl and grumble at your food ; So learn this lesson, I implore you, —
Always to eat what's placed before you.
Dear Little Whale, let me entreat That you will keep quite clean and neat;
Pray do not storm and rage with wrath When you are told to take a bath.
Dear Little Owl, try to be good
And mind your mother as you should ;
With cheerful smile forsake your play When sent to take a nap each day.
Dear Little Bear, affectionate be Toward all the people that you see;
Heed not their cold and haughty shrugs But greet them with endearing hugs.
My Dear Hyena, your sweet smile Proves that you have no thought of guile;
But when you meet a timid man Pray laugh as little as you can.
Dear Little Leopard, have you tried To clean those spots from off your hide?
If soap and sand will not succeed, Then gasoline is what you need.
Near to Nature's heart.
\
THE LEARNED FISH
This learned Fish has not sufficient
brains To go into the water when it rains.
HILAIRE BELLOC.
SUCH NONSENSE!
71
I wish that my Room had a Floor! I don't so Much Care for a Door, But this Crawling Around
Without Touching the Ground Is Getting to be Quite a Bore!
GELETT BURGESS.
72 SUCH NONSENSE!
COPY OF APPLICATION FOR INSURANCE
IN THE
Execrable Life Insurance Company of New York
Note to Applicant: Answer the following questions without hesitation or embarrassment. All disclosures will be treated by the Company as strictly con- fidential.
1. A. Give your right name, and your latest measurements by the Bertillon
system.
B. What do you do for a living?
C. Where do you do it?
D. Are you in business for your health, or only to escape your wife's "At
homes"?
E. Have you ever failed? If so, how much did it net you1?
2. A. Where were you born?
If so, why ?
3. A. Are you married, single or a widower?
B. Was it an accident?
C. And are you happy?
4. State, as far as your intelligence permits, the following facts about your
ancestors :
A. Age and state of health, if living, or cause, how long sick, and age
at death of your Father's step-servant?
B. Of your Mother's half-toned Stranger-in-law ?
C. Outline, in substance, your Father's father's habits in infancy, youth
and middle age, with names of his friends, physicians and cred- itors during that time.
D. Give, in full, your Mother's grand-aunt's occupation, accomplish-
ments, physical condition and mental tendencies, with complete list of ailments from time of birth to death.
5. A. How many full brothers have you had?
B. Were you responsible for their condition?
C. How many volunteer sisters did you have, before you finally got a
wife?
6. A. Are you enjoying good health?
B. If not, what do you enjoy?
C. Have you been successfully vaccinated, cauterised, sterilised, sprayed,
SUCH NONSENSE! 73
ventilated, disinfected, washed, dried, combed, swept, dusted, fu- migated, shampooed and deodorised? D. Did it hurt?
7. A. Have you called in your family physician within a year?
B. If not, how much do you owe him on the old account?
C. Have you ever been advised by a physician — or the police — to try a
change of climate to benefit your health?
D. Has any competent examiner — other than a bar-tender — ever given
an unfavourable opinion of your physical condition?
8. A. Have you Pickled Feet, Housemaid's Knee or Falling of the Face at
this writing?
B. If so, are you wearing ear-tabs and union underwear?
C. Do you agree to wear them while insured in this company?
9. A. Do you use intoxicating liquors?
B. If so, state your favourite, with directions for mixing same, for th€ use of our President when he gets your first premium.
10. A. Have you ever used, as narcotics, Opium, Morphia, Chloral, Sapolio,
Grape-Nuts, Tabasco or Listerine, unless prescribed by a magazine or other competent practitioner?
11. How's your liver?
It is hereby agreed: That all the foregoing statements and answers, made
to the Company's Medical Examiner, are the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me Sarah ! Witnessed by the Examiner,
(Signature of the person to be insured)
GIDEON WURDZ. No, this is not our Home Towne. (Charles Wayland Towne.)
74 SUCH NONSENSE!
CAUTIONARY VERSES
My little dears, who learn to read, pray early, learn to shun That very silly thing indeed which people call a pun; Read Entick's rules, and 'twill be found how simple an offence It is to make the selfsame sound afford a double sense.
For instance, ale may make you ail, your aunt an ant may kill, You in a vale may buy a veil and Bill may pay the bill. Or if to France your bark you steer, at Dover it may be A peer appears upon the pier, who blind, still goes to sea.
Thus, one might say, when, to a treat, good friends accept our greeting, 'Tis meet that men who meet to eat should eat their meat when meeting; Brawn on the board's no bore indeed, although from boar prepared; Nor can the fowl on which we feed, foul feeding be declared.
Thus one ripe fruit may be a pear, and yet be pared again, And still be one, which seemeth rare until we do explain. It therefore should be all your aim to speak with ample care, For who, however fond of game, would choose to swallow hair?
A fat man's gait may make us smile, who have no gate to close ; The farmer sitting on his stile no stylish person knows. Perfumers men of scents must be; some Scilly men are bright; A brown man oft deep read we see, a black a wicked wight.
Most wealthy men good manors have, however vulgar they;
And actors still the harder slave the oftener they play;
So poets can't the baize obtain, unless their tailors choose;
While grooms and coachmen, not in vain, each evening seek the Mews.
The dyer, who by dyeing lives, a dire life maintains; The glazier, it is known, receives his profits for his panes/ By gardeners thyme is tied, 'tis true, when spring is in its prime, But time or tide won't wait for you if you are tied for time.
Then now you see, my little dears, the way to make a pun; A trick which you, through coming years, should sedulously shun; The fault admits of no defence; for wheresoe'er 'tis found, You sacrifice for sound the sense; the sense is never sound.
So let your words and actions too, one single meaning prove, And, just in all you say or do, you'll gain esteem and love; In mirth and play no harm you'll know when duty's task is done, But parents ne'er should let you go unpunished for a pun !
THEODORE HOOK. For parlor recitation.
SUCH NONSENSE!
75
GOOD JAMES AND NAUGHTY REGINALD
Once upon a Time there was a Bad boy whose Name was Reginald and there was a Good boy whose Name was James. Reginald would go Fishing when his Mamma told him Not to, and he Cut off the Cat's Tail with the Bread Knife one Day, and then told Mamma the Baby had Driven it in with the Rolling Pin, which was a Lie. James was always Obedient, and when his Mamma told him not to Help an old Blind Man across the street or Go into a Dark Room where the Boogies were, he always Did What She said. That is why they Called him Good James. Well, by and by, along Came Christmas. Mamma
said, You have been Reginald, you will ents from Santa but you, my Son Oodles of Presents, Been Good. Will Children, that Bad he didn't C a r e a Kicked three Feet the Piano just for James was so sorry he cried for Half Went to Bed that lay wide Awake un- was Asleep and these people think they are Mistaken.
so Bad, my son not Get any Pres- Claus this Year; James, will get because you have you Believe it, boy Reginald said Darn and he of Veneering off Meanness. Poor for Reginald that Hour after he
an
Night
Reginald
til he s a w James then he Said if they can Fool me, Just then Santa
Claus came down the Chimney. He had lots of Pretty Toys in a Sack on his Back. Reginald shut his Eyes and Pretended to be Asleep. Then Santa Claus Said, Reginald is Bad and 1 will not Put any nice Things in his Stocking. But as for you, James, I will Fill your Stocking Plumb full of Toys, because You are Good. So Santa Claus went to Work and Put, Oh ! heaps and Heaps of Goodies in James' stocking but not a Sign of a Thing in Reginald's stocking. And then he Laughed to himself and Said, I guess Reginald will be sorry to-morrow because he Was so Bad. As he said this he Crawled up the chimney and rode off in his Sleigh. Now you can Bet your Boots Reginald was no Spring Chicken. He just Got right Straight out of Bed and changed all those Toys and Truck from James' stocking into his own. Santa Claus will Have to Sit up all Night, said He, when he Expects to get away with my Baggage. The next morning James got out of Bed and when He had Said his Prayers he Limped over to his Stocking., lick- ing his chops and Carrying his Head as High as a Bull going through a Brush Fence. But when he found there was Nothing in his stocking and that Reginald's Stocking was as Full as Papa Is when he lomes home Late from the Office, he Sat down on the Floor and began to Wonder why on Earth he had Been such a Good boy. Reginald spent a Happy Christmas and James was very Miserable. After all, Children, it Pays to be Bad, so Long as you Combine Intellect with Crime. EUGENE FIELD.
76 SUCH NONSENSE!
ARE WOMEN FAIR?
"Are women fair?" Ay, wondrous fair to see, too. "Are women sweet ?" Yea, passing sweet they be, too. Most fair and sweet to them that only love them; Chaste and discreet to all save them that prove them.
"Are women wise?" Not wise, but they be witty; "Are women witty?" Yea, the more the pity; They are so witty, and in wit so wily, Though ye be ne'er so wise, they will beguile ye.
"Are women fools?" Not fools, but fondlings many; "Can women fond be faithful unto any?" When snow-white swans do turn to colour sable, Then women fond will be both firm and stable.
"Are women saints?" No saints, nor yet no devils; "Are women good?" Not good, but needful evils. So Angel-like, that devils I do not doubt them, So needful evils that few can live without them.
"Are women proud?" Ay! passing proud, an praise them. "Are women kind?" Ay! wondrous kind, an please them. Or so imperious, no man can endure them, Or so kind-hearted, any may procure them.
FRANCIS DAVISON.
Are women people?
THE PICKERLICK
"Tell me, oh, Pickerlick, that 'round my pathway roars, Do ye not know some way to pickle cellar-doors? Or tell me, if you please, what method is the best To make a Stilton cheese put on a speckled vest." The Pickerlick gnawed at a piece of soap, And sneezed sedately as it answered, "Nope."
"Tell me, oh, Pickerlick, prick up thine hard-boiled ears, Why did you hang salt fish on the chandeliers? Why did you let the cat wear yellow bombazine? And offer to the Duke a single fried sardine?" The Pickerlick extremely winked his eye, And in a minor key he warbled "Pie !"
SUCH NONSENSE!
77
"Yet, tell me, Pickerlick, and tell me quick, Why do you write your letters with a brick? Why is your bonnet made of Indian meal? And all your other clothes of orange peel?" The Pickerlick with eelgrass tied his shoe, And wept profusely as he answered "Boo!"
Nonsense, poor and simple.
emerged from his. lair Jor a short summer cut to his hair. J3ut thejBarber he wept ;
'While his customers slept
,As they waited their turn in the chair.
78
SUCH NONSENSE!
OLD GRIMES
Old Grimes is dead, that good old man, We ne'er shall see him more;
He used to wear a long black coat All buttoned down before.
His heart was open as the day, His feelings all were true.
His hair was some inclined to> grey, He wore it in a queue.
Whene'er he heard the voice of pain, His breast with pity burned;
The large round head upon his cane From ivory was turned.
Kind words he ever had for all,
He knew no base design; His eyes were dark and rather small,
His nose was aquiline.
He lived at peace with all mankind, In friendship he was true;
His coat had pocket-holes behind, His pantaloons were blue.
Unharm'd, the sin which earth pollutes
He pass'd securely o'er; And never wore a pair of boots
For thirty years or more.
But good old Grimes is now at rest, Nor fears misfortune's frown;
He wore a double-breasted vest, The stripes ran up and down.
He modest merit sought to find,
And pay it its desert; He had no malice in his mind,
No ruffles on his shirt.
His neighbours he did not abuse, —
Was sociable and gay; He wore large buckles on his shoes
And changed them every day.
His knowledge, hid from public gaze, He did not bring to view;
Nor made a noise, town-meeting days, As many people do.
His worldly goods he never threw In trust to fortune's chances;
But lived (as all his brothers do) In easy circumstances.
Thus, undisturbed by anxious care His peaceful moments ran;
And everybody said he was A fine old gentleman.
ALBERT GORTON GREENE.
Old, but good — both the man and the verses.
ON A NANKIN PLATE
"Ah, me, but it might have been ! Was there ever so dismal a fate?" — Quoth the little blue mandarin.
"Such a maid was never seen !
She pass'd, tho' I cried to her, 'Wait,' —
Ah me, but it might have been !
"I cried, '0 my Flower, My Queen, Be mine !' 'Twas precipitate," — • Quoth the little blue mandarin, —
"But then . . . she was just sixteen, — • Long-eyed, — as a lily straight, — Ah me, but it might have been !
"As it was, from her palankeen, She laughed — 'You're a week
late !' " (Quoth the little blue mandarin.)
too
"That is why in a mist of spleen, I mourn on this Nankin Plate. Ah me, but it might have been!" Quoth the little blue mandarin.
AUSTIN DOBSON.
I wish he had told more about her.
SUCH NONSENSE!
79
THE LEARNED NEGRO
There was a negro preacher, I have
heard, In Southern parts before rebellion
stirred, Who did not spend his strength in
empty sound; His was a mind deep-reaching and
profound. Others might beat the air, and make a
noise, And help to amuse the silly girls and
boys ; But as for him he was a man of
thought,
Deep in theology, although untaught. He could not read or write, but he was
wise,
And knew right smart how to extem- porise. One Sunday morn, when hymns and
prayers were said, The preacher rose, and rubbing up his
head, "Bredren and sisterin, and companions
dear, Our preachment to-day, as you shall
hear,
Will be ob de creation, — ob de plan On which God fashioned Adam, de fust
man. When God made Adam, in de ancient
day, He made his body out ob earth and
clay, He shape him all out right, den by and
. by>
He set him up agin de fence to
dry." "Stop," said a voice; and straightway
there uprose, An ancient negro in his master's
clothes. "Tell me," said he, "before you farder
One little thing which I should like to i know. It does not quite get through dis nig-
gar's har, How came dat fence so nice and handy
dar?" Like one who in the mud is tightly
stuck,
Or one nonplussed, astonished, thun- derstruck, The preacher looked severely on the
pews, And rubbed his hair to know what
words to use : "Bredren," said he, "dis word I hab to
say; De preacher can't be bothered in dis
way;
For, if he is, it's jest as like as not, Our whole theology will be upsot."
Cun'n' li'l yarn.
GOING WITH THE STREAM
Upon the water in a boat I sit and sketch, as there we float, The scene is fair, the s!ream is strong, I sketch it as we float along.
The stream is strong, and as I sit And view the picture that we quit, It flows, and flows, and bears the boat, And I sit sketching as we float.
Still as we go, the things I see, E'en as I see them, cease to be, The angles shift, and with the boat The whole perspective seems to float.
Yet still I look and still I sit Adjusting, shaping, altering it ; And still the current bears the boat, And me, still sketching as I float. ARTHUR H. CLOUGH.
The very apotheosis of dolce far niente, — if you know what I mean.
80
SUCH NONSENSE!
TO THE PLIOCENE SKULL
"Speak, 0 man less recent!
Fragmentary fossil ! Primal pioneer of pliocene formation, Hid in lowest drifts below the earliest stratum
Of volcanic tufa!
"Older than the beasts, the oldest Pa- laeotherimn ;
Older than the trees, the oldest Crypto- gam!;
Older than the hills, those infantile eruptions
Of earth's epidermis!
"Eo — Mio — Plio — Whatsoe'er the 'cene'
was That those vacant sockets filled with
awe and wonder — Whether shores Devonian or Silurian
beaches —
Tell us thy strange story!
"Or has the professor slightly ante- dated
By some thousand years thy advent on this planet,
Giving thee an air that's somewhat bet- ter fitted
For cold-blooded creatures?
"Wert thou true spectator of that
mighty forest When above thy head the stately Sigil-
laria Reared its columned trunks in that
remote and distant
Carboniferous epoch?
"Tell us of that scene — the dim and
watery woodland Songless, silent, hushed, with never
bird or insect; Veiled with spreading fronds and
screened with tall club-mosses, Lycopodiacea,
"When beside thee walked the solemn Plesiosaurus,
And around thee crept the festive Ich- thyosaurus,
While from time to time above thee flew and circled
Cheerful Pterodactyls.
"Tell us of thy food — those half-marine refections,
Crinoids on the shell and brachipods au naturel —
Cuttle-fish to which the pieuvre of Vic- tor Hugo
Seems a periwinkle.
"Speak, thou awful vestige of the
earth's creation,
Solitary fragment of remains organic ! Tell the wondrous secret of thy past
existence —
Speak! thou oldest primate!"
Even as I gazed, a thrill of the maxilla, And a lateral movement of the condy-
loid process, With post-pliocene sounds of healthy
mastication,
Ground the teeth together.
And, from that imperfect dental exhi- bition,
Stained with expressed juices of the weed Nicotian,
Came these hollow accents, blent with softer murmurs
Of expectoration :
"Which my name is Bowers, and my
crust was busted Falling down a shaft in Calaveras
county,
But I'd take it kindly if you'd send the pieces
Home to old Missouri !"
BRET HARTE.
Rather up-to-date for so long ago.
ANGLING FOR MERMAIDS
Angling for mermaids, — always choose With greatest care the bait you use; Try beads and mirrors, combs and shoes. But, as is known to fishermen,— If you catch some too small, — why then Yo^^ have to throw them back again.
SUCH NONSENSE!
81
ROBINSON CRUSOE'S STORY
The night was thick and hazy When the Piccadilly Daisy Carried down the crew and captain in
the sea;
And I think the water drowned 'em, For they never, never found 'em, And I know they didn't come ashore with me.
Oh! 'twas very sad and lonely
When I found myself the only Population on this cultivated shore;
But I've made a little tavern
In a rocky little cavern, And I sit and watch for people at the door.
I spent no time in looking For a girl to do my cooking, As I'm quite a clever hand at making
stews ;
But I had that fellow Friday Just to keep the tavern tidy, And to put a Sunday polish on my shoes.
I have a little garden
That I'm cultivating lard in,
As the things I eat are rather tough
and dry;
For I live on toasted lizards, Prickly pears and parrot gizzards,
And I'm really very fond of beetle pie.
The clothes I had were furry, And it made me fret and worry
When I found the moths were eating
off the hair;
And I had to scrape and sand 'em, And I boiled 'em and I tanned 'em,
Till I got the fine morocco suit I wear.
I sometimes seek diversion
In a family excursion, With the few domestic animals you see;
And we take along a carrot
As refreshment for the parrot, And a little can of jungleberry tea.
Then we gather as we travel Bits of moss and dirty gravel,
And we chip off little specimens of
stone ;
And we carry home as prizes Funny bugs of handy sizes,
Just to give the day a scientific tone.
If the roads are wet and muddy We remain at home and study, —
For the Goat is very clever at a sum, — And the Dog, instead of fighting Studies ornamental writing,
While the Cat is taking lessons on the drum.
We retire at eleven, And we rise again at seven; And I wish to call attention, as I close, To the fact that all the scholars Are correct about their collars, And particular in turning out their toes.
CHARLES E. CARBYL.
SUCH NONSENSE!
LINES ON MONTEZUMA
Montezuma
Met a puma
Coining through the rye;
Montezuma
Made the puma
Into apple-pie.
Invitation To the nation Every one to come. Montezuma And the puma Give a kettle-drum.
Acceptation
Of the nation,
One and all invited.
Montezuma
And the puma
Equally delighted.
Preparation, Ostentation, Dresses rich prepared: Feathers — jewels — • Work in crewels — • No expense is spared.
Congregation Of the nation Round the palace wall. Awful rumour That the puma Won't be served to all.
Deputation
From the nation,
Audience they gain.
"What's this rumour?
Montezuma,
If you please, explain."
Monteznma (Playful humour Very well sustained) Answers "Pie-dish, As it's my dish, Is for me retained."
Exclamation ! Indignation ! Feeling running high. Montezuma Joins the puma In the apple-pie.
D. F. A. Easy reading.
AN UTTER PASSION UTTERED UTTERLY
Meseem's that love, with swifter feet than fire,
Brought me my Lady, crown'd with amorous burs,
And drapen in tear-colour'd minivers,
Sloped satire wise, in token of desire.
My heart she soaked in tears, and on a pyre
Laid, for Love's sake, in folds of fragrant perse,
The while her face, more fair than sunflowers,
She gave mine eyes for pasture most entire.
Sicklike, she seemed, as with wan-carven smiles
Some deal she moved anear, and thereunto
Thrice paler wox, and weaker than blown sand
Upon the passioning ocean's bleached miles
And as her motion's music nearer drew
My starved lips played the varnpyre with her hand.
JOHN TODHTJNTER. Conscientious, painstaking work.
SUCH NONSENSE!
83
HUMPTY DUMPTY'S RECITA- TION
"In winter, when the fields are white, I sing this song for your delight—
"In spring, when woods are getting
green, I'll try and tell you what I mean : "
"In summer, when the days are long, Perhaps you'll understand the song:
In autumn, when the leaves are brown, Take pen and ink, and write it down."
"I sent a message to the fish :
I told them 'This is what I wish.'
The little fishes of the sea, They sent an answer back to me.
The little fishes' answer was,
'We cannot do it, Sir, because ' "
"I sent to them again to say 'It will be better to obey.'
The fishes answered, with a grin, 'Why, what a temper you are in !'
I told them once, I told them twice: They would not listen to advice.
I took a kettle large and new, Fit for the deed I had to do.
My heart went hop, my heart went
thump : I filled the kettle at the pump.
Then some one came to me and said, 'The little fishes are in bed.'
I said to him, I said it plain,
'Then you must wake them up again.'
I said it very loud and clear: I went and shouted in his ear.
But he was very stiff and proud :
He said, 'You needn't shout so loud!'
And he was very proud and stiff: He said, 'I'd go and wake them, if '
I took a corkscrew from the shelf: I went to wake them up myself.
And when I found the door was locked, I pulled and pushed and kicked and knocked.
And when I found the door was shut,
I tried to turn the handle, but "
LEWIS CARRQL&,
SUCH NONSENSE!
THE BALLAD OF THE OYSTERMAN
It was a tall young oysterman lived by
the river-side; His shop was just upon the bank, his
boat was on the tide. The daughter of a fisherman, that was
so straight and slim, Lived over on the other bank, right
opposite to him.
It was the pensive oysterman that saw
a lovely maid, Upon a moonlight evening, a-sitting in
the shade; He saw her wave her handkerchief,
as much as if to say, "I'm wide awake, young oysterman,
and all the folks away."
Then up arose the oysterman, and to
himself said he, "I guess I'll leave the skiff at home, for
fear that folks should see ; I read it in the story-book, that, for to
kiss his dear, Leander swam the Hellespont — and I
will swim this here."
And he has leaped into the waves, and
crossed the shining stream, And he has clambered up the bank, all
in the moonlight gleam; 0 there were kisses sweet as dew, and
words as soft as rain- But they have heard her father's step,
and in he leaps again !
Out spoke the ancient fisherman — "0
what was that, my daughter?" " 'Twas nothing but a pebble, sir, I
threw into the water." "And what is that, pray tell me, love,
that paddles off so fast?" "It's nothing but a porpoise, sir, that's
been a-swimming past."
Out spoke the ancient fisherman —
"Now bring me my harpoon ! I'll get into my fishing-boat, and fix
the fellow soon." Down fell that pretty innocent, as falls
a snow-white lamb ; Her hair drooped round her pallid
cheeks, like sea-weed on a clam.
Alas for those two loving ones ! she
waked not from her swound, And he was taken with the cramp, and
in the waves was drowned; But Fate has metamorphosed them, in
pity of their wo, And now they keep an oyster-shop for
mermaids down below.
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
Small and early fun.
A HISTORY
There was a man, so legends say, And he, how strange to tell !
Was born upon the very day Whereon his birthday fell!
He was a baby first. And then He was his parents' joy;
But was a man soon after, when, He ceased to be a boy.
And when he got to middle life,
To marry was his whim ; The self-same day he took a wife,
Some woman married him !
None saw him to the other side Of Styx, by Charon ferried;
But 'tis conjecture that he died, Because he has been buried.
TOM HOOD, JR.
One more!
SUCH NONSENSE!
85
THE CONVERTED CANNIBALS
Upon an island, all alone,
They lived, in the Pacific; Somewhere within the Torrid Zone,
Where heat is quite terrific. 'Twould shock you were I to declare The many things they did not wear, Altho' no doubt One's best without Such things in heat terrific.
Though cannibals by birth were they,
Yet, since they'd first existed, Their simple menu day by day
Of such-like things consisted : Omelets of turtle's eggs, and yams, And stews from freshly-gathered clams, Such things as these Were, — if you please, — Of what their fare consisted.
But after dinner they'd converse,
Nor did their topic vary; Wild tales of gore they would rehearse,
And talk of missionary. They'd gaze upon each other's joints, And indicate the tender points. Said one : "For us 'Tis dangerous To think of missionary."
Well, on a day, upon the shore,
As flotsam, or as jetsam, Some wooden cases, — ten, or more, —
Were cast up. "Let us get some, And see, my friend, what they contain ; The chance may not occur again," Said good Who-zoo. Said Turn-turn, "Do; We'll both wade out and get some."
The cases held, — what do you think? — "PRIME MISSIONARY — TINNED."
Nay ! gentle reader, do not shrink- The man who made it sinned :
He thus had labelled bloater-paste To captivate the native taste.
He hoped, of course,
This fraud to force On them. In this he sinned.
Our simple friends knew naught of
sin;
They thought that this confection Was missionary in a tin According to direction. For very joy they shed salt tears. " 'Tis what we've waited for, for
years,"
Said they. "Hooray! We'll feast to-day According to direction."
" 'Tis very tough," said one, for he
The tin and all had eaten. "Too salt," the other said, "for me;
The flavour might be beaten." It was enough. Soon each one swore He'd missionary eat no more : Their tastes were cured, They felt assured This flavour might be beaten.
86
SUCH NONSENSE!
And, should a missionary call
To-day, he'd find them gentle, With no perverted tastes at all,
And manners ornamental ; He'd be received, I'm bound to say, In courteous and proper way; Nor need he fear To taste their cheer However ornamental.
G. E. FARROW.
It's human nature to like inhuman stories.
I
THE YOUNG GAZELLE A Moore - ish Tale
In early youth, as you may guess,
I revelled in poetic lore, And while my schoolmates studied less,
I resolutely studied Moore.
Those touching lines from "Lalla
Rookh,"- "Ah, ever thus— ' you know them
well,
Such root within my bosom took, I wished I had a young Gazelle.
Oh, yes! a sweet, a sweet Gazelle, "To charm me with its soft black eye,"
So soft, so liquid, that a spell Seems in that gem-like orb to lie.
Years, childhood passed, youth fled away,
My vain desire I'd learned to quell, Till came that most auspicious day
When some one gave me a Gazelle.
With care, and trouble, and expense, 'Twas brought from Afric's northern cape;
It seemed of great intelligence, And oh ! so beautiful a shape.
Its lustrous, liquid eye was bent With special lovingness on me;
No gift that mortal could present More welcome to my heart could be.
I brought him food with fond caress, Built him a hut, snug, neat, and warm;
I called him "Selim," to express
The marked s(e)limness of his form.
The little creature grew so tame, He "learned to know (the neigh- bours) well;"
And then the ladies, when they came, Oh! how they "nursed that dear Gazelle."
But, wo is me ! on earthly ground Some ill with every blessing dwells;
And soon to my dismay I found That this applies to young Gazelles.
When free allowed to roam indoors, The mischief that he did was great;
The walls, the furniture, the floors, He made in a terrific state.
He nibbled at the table-cloth, And trod the carpet into holes,
And in his gambols, nothing loth, Kicked over scuttles full of coals.
SUCH NONSENSE!
87
To view his image in the glass, He reared upon his hinder legs;
And thus one morn I found, alas ! Two porcelain vases smashed like eggs.
Whatever did his fancy catch
By way of food, he would not wait
To be invited, but would snatch It from one's table, hand, or plate.
He riled the dog, annoyed the cat, And scared the goldfish into fits;
He butted through my newest hat, And tore my manuscript to bits.
'Twas strange, so light his hooflets weighed,
His limbs as slender as a hare's, The noise my little Selim made
In trotting up and down the stairs.
To tie him up I thought was wise, But loss of freedom gave him pain;
I could not stand those pleading eyes, And so I let him go again.
How sweet to see him skip and prance Upon the gravel or the lawn ;
More light in step than fairies' dance, More graceful than an English fawn.
But then he spoilt the garden so, Trod down the beds, raked up the seeds,
And ate the plants — nor did he show The least compunction for his deeds.
He trespassed on the neighbours' ground,
And broke two costly melon frames, With other damages — a pound
To pay, resulted from his games.
In short, the mischief was immense That from his gamesome pranks be- fel,
And, truly, in a double sense,
He proved a very "dear Gazelle."
At length I sighed — "Ah, ever thus Doth disappointment mock each hope;
But 'tis in vain to make a fuss; You'll have to go, my antelope."
The chance I wished for did occur j
A lady going to the East Was willing; so I gave to her
That little antelopian beast.
I said, "This antler'd desert child In Turkish palaces may roam,
But he is much too free and wild To keep in any English home."
Yes, tho' I gave him up with tears, Experience had broke the spell,
And if I live a thousand years, I'll never have a young Gazelle. WALTER PARKE.
In possession sweet desire will die.
IMAGISTE LOVE LINES
I love my lady with a deep purple love ; She fascinates me like a fly Struggling in a pot of glue. Her eyes are grey, like twin ash-cans, Just emptied, about which still hovers A dainty mist.
Her disposition is as bright as a ten- cent shine,
Yet her kisses are tender and goulashy. I love my lady with a deep purple love.
Than which, nothing could be more
so.
88
SUCH NONSENSE!
DIVERSIONS OF THE RE-ECHO CLUB
I NEVER, SAW A PURPLE COW. I NEVER HOPE TO SEEONB
I CAN TELL YOU ANYHOW ft) RATHE& JBE THAN BE ONE
It is with pleasure that we announce our ability to offer to the public the papers of the Re-Echo Club. This club, somewhat after the order of the Echo Club, late of Boston, takes pleas- ure in trying to better what is done. On the occasion of the meeting of
which the following gems of poesy are the result, the several members of the club engaged to write up the well- known tradition of the Purple Cow in more elaborate form than the quatrain made famous by Mr. Gelett Burgess:
"I never saw a Purple Cow, I never hope to see one;
But I can tell you, anyhow, I'd rather see than be one."
SUCH NONSENSE!
89
The first attempt here cited is the production of Mr. John Milton :
Hence, vain, deluding cows.
The herd of folly, without colour bright,
How little you delight,
Or fill the Poet's mind, or songs arouse !
But, hail! thou goddess gay of fea- ture !
Hail, divinest purple creature!
Oh, Cow, thy visage is too bright
To hit the sense of human sight.
And though I'd like, just once, to see thee,
I never, never, never'd be thee !
MR. P. BYSSHE SHELLEY:
Hail to thee, blithe spirit !
Cow thou never wert ; But in life to cheer it
Playest thy full part In purple lines of unpremeditated art.
The pale purple colour
Melts around thy sight Like a star, but duller, In the broad daylight. I'd see thee, but I would not be thee if I might.
We look before and after
At cattle as they browse; Our most hearty laughter
Something sad must rouse. Our sweetest songs are those that fell of Purple Cows.
MR. w. WORDSWORTH:
She dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dee; A Cow whom there were few to praise
And very few to see.
A violet by a mossy stone
Greeting the smiling East Is not so purple, I must own,
As that erratic beast. She lived unknown, that Cow, and so
I never chanced to see; But if I had to be one, oh,
The difference to me !
MR. T. GRAY:
The curfew tolls the knell of parting
day, The lowing herd winds slowly o'er
the lea; I watched them slowly wend their weary
way,
But, ah, a Purple Cow I did not see.
Full many a cow of purplest ray serene
Is haply grazing where I may not
see; Pull many a donkey writes of her, I
ween,
But neither of these creatures would I be.
MR. j. w. RILEY:
There, little Cow, don't cry!
You are brindle and brown, I know. And with wild, glad hues Of reds and blues, You never will gleam and glow. But though not pleasing to the eye, There, little Cow, don't cry, don't" cry.
LORD A. TENNYSON:
Ask me no more. A cow I fain would
see Of purple tint, like to a sun-soaked
grape — Of purple tint, like royal velvet
cape —
But such a creature I would never be — Ask me no more.
90
SUCH NONSENSE!
CAN TELL YOU AHYHOW CDRATHER SEE THAN BE ONE
I NEVER SAW A PURPLE OW 1 NEVER I^V
TICANTELLYOlJ/TOltf
i7>
fDRATHERSEETMl
I EH HOPE TO SEE ONE
RSEt THAN BE ONE'
TELL YOU ANY H
roi^THEaSEETHAMKONEWVEaPAW
ERHOPETOSEEON
Ah, yes, I wrote the "Purple Cow" — I'm sorry now I wrote it. But I can tell you anyhow, I'll kill you if you quote it.
THE LARK
This lark, — you nun/ or uniij not knoit>, —
Sang about twenty iictirx «</<>;
And ere a though i/on m/ii/ forget
The Coops, the d/ini Mini and Vivette,
I can't hcl/> thinking uni/liinr
You I'ci'ulli'c! 'I' he rnr/>!e Cow.
SUCH NONSENSE!
91
MR. R. BROWNING:
All that I know
Of a certain Cow Is it can throw,
Somewhere, somehow, Now a dart of red,
Now a dart of blue (That makes purple, 'tis said).
I would fain see, too. This Cow that darkles the red and the blue!
MR. J. KEATS:
A cow of purple is a joy forever. Its loveliness increases. I have never Seen this phenomenon. Yet ever keep A brave lookout ; lest I should be asleep When she comes by. For, though I
would not be one, I've oft imagined 'twould be joy to see
one.
MR. D. G. ROSSETTi:
The Purple Cow strayed in the glade;
(Oh, my soul! but the milk is blue!) She strayed and strayed and strayed and strayed
(And I wail and I cry Wa-hoo!).
I've never seen her — nay, not I; (Oh, my soul! but the milk is blue!)
Yet were I that Cow I should want to
die.
(And I wail and I cry Wa-hoo !) But in vain my tears I strew.
MR. T. ALDRICH:
Somewhere in some faked nature place, In Wonderland, in Nonsense Land,
Two darkling shapes met face to face, And bade each other stand.
"And who are you ?" said each to each ;
"Tell me your title, anyhow." One said, "I am the Papal Bull,"
"And I the Purple Cow."
MR. E. ALLAN POE :
Open then I flung a shutter, And, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a Purple Cow which
gayly tripped around my floor. Not the least obeisance made she, Not a moment stopped or stayed she, But with mien of chorus lady perched
herself above my door. On a dusty bust of Dante perched and sat above my door.
And that Purple Cow unflitting Still is sitting — still is sitting
On that dusty bust of Dante just
above my chamber door, And her horns have all the seeming Of a demon's that is screaming, And the arc-light o'er her streaming
Casts her shadow on the floor.
And my soul from out that pool of Purple shadow on the floor,
Shall be lifted Nevermore!
MR. ii. LONGFELLOW:
The day is done, and the darkness Falls from the wing of night
As ballast is wafted downward From an air-ship in its flight.
I dream of a purple creature Which is not as kine are now;
And resembles cattle only As Cowper resembles a cow.
Such cows have power to quiet Our restless thoughts and rude;
They come like the Benedictine That follows after food.
SUCH NONSENSE!
MR. A. SWINBURNE:
Oh, Cow of rare rapturous vision,
Oh, purple, impalpable Cow, Do you browse in a Dream Field
Elysian,
Are you purpling pleasantly now? By the side of wan waves do you
languish ?
Or in the lithe lush of the grove? While vainly I search in my anguish,
0 Bovine of mauve ! Despair in my bosom is sighing,
Hope's star has sunk sadly to rest; Though cows of rare sorts I am buy- ing, Not one breathes a balm to my
breast. Oh, rapturous rose-crowned occasion,
When I such a glory might see ! But a cow of a purple persuasion
1 never would be.
MR. A. DOBSON:
I'd love to see A Purple Cow,
Oh, Goodness me !
I'd love to see
But not to be One. Anyhow,
I'd love to see A Purple Cow.
MR. o. HERFORD:
Children, observe the Purple Cow, You cannot see her, anyhow; And, little ones, you need not hope Your eyes will e'er attain such scope. But if you ever have a choice To be, or see, lift up your voice And choose to see. For surely you Don't want to browse around and moo.
MR. H. c. BUNNER:
Oh, what's the way to Arcady,
Where all the cows are purple? Ah, woe is me ! I never hope On such a sight my eyes to ope; But as I sing in merry glee Along the road to Arcady, Perchance full soon I may espy A Purple Cow come dancing by.
Heigho ! I then shall see one. Her horns bedecked with ribbons gay, And garlanded with rosy may, —
A tricksy sight. Still I must say
I'd rather see than be one.
MR. A. SWINBURNE:
(Who was so enthused that he made a second attempt)
Only in dim, drowsy depths of a dream do I dare to delight in deliciously
dreaming
Cows there may be of a passionate purple, — cows of a violent violet- hue;
Ne'er have I seen such a sight, I am certain it is but a demi-delirious
dreaming —
Ne'er may I happily harbour a hesi- tant hope in my heart that my dream may come true.
Sad is my soul, and my senses are sobbing so strong is my strenuous spirit to see one.
Dolefully, drearily doomed to despair as warily wearily watching I wait;
Thoughts thickly thronging are thrill- ing and throbbing; to see is a glori- ous gain — but to be one ! That were a darker and direfuller destiny, that were a fearfuller, frightfuller fate!
SUCH NONSENSE!
93
MR. R. KIPLING:
In the old ten-acre pasture,
Lookin' eastward toward a tree, There's a Purple Cow a-settin'
And I know she thinks of me. "For the wind is in the gum-tree,
And the hay is in the mow, And the cow-bells are a-calling
"Come and see a Purple Cow!"
But I am not going now, Not at present, anyhow, For I am not fond of purple, and I can't abide a cow; No, I shall not go to-day, Where the Purple Cattle play. But I think I'd rather see one Than to be one, anyhow.
CAROLYN WELLS.
94 SUCH NONSENSE!
CLEAN CLARA
What! not know our Clean Clara? Why, the hot folks in Sahara, And the cold Esquimaux, Our little Clara knows ! Clean Clara, the Poet sings, Cleaned a hundred thousand things!
She cleaned the keys of the harpsichord, She cleaned the hilt of the family sword, She cleaned my lady, she cleaned my lord, All the pictures in their frames, Knights with daggers and stomachered dames — Cecils, Godfreys, Montforts, Graemes, Winifreds — all those nice old names !
She cleaned the works of the eight-day clock,
She cleaned the spring of a secret lock,
She cleaned the mirror, she cleaned the cupboard,
All the books she India-rubbered !
She cleaned the Dutch tiles in the place,
She cleaned some very old-fashioned lace;
The Countess of Miniver came to her,
"Pray, my dear, will you clean my fur?"
All her cleanings are admirable,
To count your teeth you will be able,
If you look in the walnut table.
She cleaned the tent-stitch and the sampler, She cleaned the tapestry, which was ampler; Joseph going down into the pit, And the Shunammite woman with the boy in a fit.
You saw the reapers, not in the distance,
And Elisha, coming to the child's assistance,
With the house on the wall that was built for the prophet,
The chair, the bed and the bolster of it.
The eyebrows all had a twirl reflective,
Just like an eel : to spare invective
There was plenty of color but no perspective.
However, Clara cleaned it all, With a curious lamp, that hangs in the hall; She cleaned the drops of the chandeliers, Madam, in mittens, was moved to tears.
SUCH NONSENSE!
95
She cleaned the cage of the cockatoo, The oldest bird that ever grew; I should say a thousand years old would do. I'm sure he looked it, but nobody knew; She cleaned the china, she cleaned the delf, She cleaned the baby, she cleaned herself!
Tomorrow morning, she means to try To clean the cobwebs from the sky; Some people say the girl will rue it, But my belief is she will do it.
So I've made up my mind to be there to see There's a beautiful place in the walnut tree; The bough is as firm as a solid rock; She brings out her broom at six o'clock.
In spite of all, I'm for Clara.
A NEW PAPER FOR BIPEDS
DEAR SIR, — So much interest is taken nowadays in the four-footed do- mestic creation, their joys and sorrows, that it only seems fair that our feath- ered friends, the fowls, should have a turn. With this end in view I am bringing out a paper called The Daily Wattle, devoted to the needs and inter- ests of the poultry world, and send you herewith a few cuttings from the first number, hoping thereby to arouse pub- lic interest in a much-needed jour- nal:—
^
Social and General.
Madame Anne de Lusian gave a de- lightful little afternoon party on Sat- urday, at which Crewso sang. Among others present we noticed Mrs. Legge Home, who looked charming in white, Mr. and Mrs. Bantam, and Mr. Orp- ington, of the Buffs, who escorted two of his charming sisters.
Mr. and Mrs. Dawking have gone to Leaden Hall for the season.
W. B. RANDS.
Her many friends will be grieved to hear of the sad death of Miss Pullet, which occurred suddenly last Wednes- day at Yew Tree Farm. She appeared to be in the best of health and spirits on the Tuesday, though her friends had noticed a decided tendency to embonpoint during the last few weeks, which, it is feared, may have contrib- uted to her sudden seizure and early demise.
Lord Barn d'Or is recovering from the somewhat severe injuries he sus- tained in his motor accident on the Brighton road last week.
Two eggs, old enough to know bet- ter, were caught poaching yesterday, and were served accordingly.
The latest report is that feathers are going out of fashion and very few will be worn this autumn.
Births :
At "Ye Neste," Henley, Mrs. Wyan Dotte of eight sons and five daughters (three addled). American papers, please copy.
96
SUCH NONSENSE!
To-day's Arrangements.
Moulting season commences. Hamburg Morning Concerts, 3.45
A.M.
Egg-laying contest, 7 to 11.30 A.M.
Mr. Cochin Cockerel's Lecture at the Cackleston Hall. Subject: "Are we Hen-pecked?" 2.30 P.M.
Daily trips round the Calf and the Chicken Light.
Small Wants Column.
Cast-off Feathers. — Mrs. Farmer at- tends at own roosts. Best prices given.
To Let — A Select Midden. Estab- lished two years. Best straw and all improvements. Splendid crowing po- sition, under good bedroom windows. — Apply Chanticleer, c/o Cox & Co., Featherstone Buildings, E.G.
For Sale — Good Crate, nearly new, or would exchange for Indian maize, or anything useful. — Address, Brahma, No. 702, Poultry, E.G.
Forecast.
Full crops are expected generally. Knacky, what?
IN STATU QUO
Lo, the poor Indian ! Relic of the time When in Manhattan Art was in her
prime;
When north and south on every avenue A line of noble statues met the view, Gorgeously gilded, painted, heel to
head, In blue and green, in yellow and in
red,
Bravely attired and dignified in pose, With homely legend writ in homely
prose I
Gone is that Gothic Art; the Renais- sance
Chases the Wooden Indian from his haunts.
Now lean and furtive, faded, sullen, glowery,
He's relegated to the distant Bowery,
Where now in gloomy trance he views the schism
That alienates our Art from Sym- bolism.
Gone is his simple mediaeval verity
In this new reign of plastic insincerity !
See where the brute Thorwaldsen, dark, Locates his office in the Park Beneath the Elevated's shade, And plies his horrid, hated trade! In open sight of all beneath, A master dentist filling teeth! Mark how the maid, his victim she, Writhes in eternal agony! His mallet held (how well we know!)
SUCH NONSENSE!
97
Delays the dreaded, cruel blow. The nursemaid hurries by with fear, The copper drops a silent tear. Who set this fearful horror here?
What frantic storm of meteoric Art
Rained these outrageous samples of Delsarte?
What wicked, wretched whirlwind bade them fall
Upon the Park, the Boulevard, the Mall,
Haphazard on the drive and on the green,
The worst conspicuous, the best un- seen?
While nearer, shrinking underneath a tree,
The naked bust of Humboldt — who was he?
The decent house-maids pass the scan- dal by
With but a timid gesture of the eye.
Far in the distance, out of mortal
sight,
Remote as Jove upon Olympian height, High on the hill's obscure horizon-crest Stands Hamilton, in mossy marble
dressed. No man has seen his face or read the
lines
Here Commerce, unregarded, in the road
Takes up her poor inconsequent abode,
And there, remote, upon a long-lost slope
The bust of Moore (or Hood?) aban- dons hope,
Sown like some seed for future ceme- tery.
His drooping head proclaims him lonely, very!
"Where am I at?" he asks, but all in vain,
Of disregarding lovers in the lane.
Graved on that pedestal beneath the
pines. No man may dare set foot upon the
drive, So here the penny telescopes may
thrive, For here the mounted Park policeman
rides, And with his staff the curious stranger
chides. The Russian Emperor in vain might
long For guards so swift, so tireless, and
so strong
98
SUCH NONSENSE!
To save him from the vulgar-minded throng !
Not so within the shaded classic row
Where Sculpture emulates Madame Tussaud,
And, borrowing our celebrated cousins,
Sets up the foreign genius by the dozens.
See here Beethoven bowing low to greet
The sugar-coated fairy at his feet.
See chilly Scott, who sits amid the trees,
Drawing a rug across his numerous knees.
Over against him seated Bobbie Burns ;
His wildly frenzied eye to Heaven turns ;
Swathed in a bandage is his anguished throat ;
Below, a poem that he never wrote.
While all about, to patronise our land,
Each on his pedestal the Dagoes stand —
Shakspere, Columbus, and the un- known others —
Astonished at their wealth of new- made brothers !
Quest not the Park for heroes of our
day,
For in remoter corners they must stay, Save where the nameless Indian
Hunter flees, Or Puritan Father robs the knoll of
trees. Go search the crowded streets beneath
the "L," For there amid the cable-cars they
dwell. Framed in the arches of the girders
foul
Our discontented City Fathers scowl; See Horace Greeley, with averted eye, Shrink from a modern Babel in the
sky}
And muse upon forgotten Dodge's
grace, Apotheosis of the commonplace !
Far to the east the shrinking poet views In Tompkins Square an unfamiliar
Muse.
"M. S.," the legend on the nondescript, Proclaims the statue that of Manu- script, Who, having drunk from this Pierian
fount,
Has dared the weird pagoda's roof to mount,
From which, within a lamplit constella- tion,
She bids the scribbler Hope for Publi- cation !
And so from north to south, about the town,
Some few in boa (like Burns) and some in gown,
In frock and toga, posed with scroll and pen,
SUCH NONSENSE!
99
The city bristles with the hard-boiled
men;
Upon the just and unjust they descend, A monstrous Martian holiday to spend, With doughty gesture and with brittle
airs. What hands have wrought them? No
one knows or cares !
Alone, forgot, in Astor Place Behold a form of easy grace ! Appealing with uplifted finger, Heartless and hatless must he linger. The motorman, with careless eye Passes the famous statesman by; No hansom cabby heeds his call — They disregard him, one and all. The last car passes out of sight; Poor Sunset Cox must spend the night. He's lucky not to be alive ! No car will stop, howe'er he strive, Except Lunch Wagon No. 5.
What do we care for Burns or Scott? For there are others, are there not? Give us the men we care for truly, Like Chimmie Fadden and Mr. Dooley. What do we care for Bolivar? Give us Chuck Connors at the bar !
Or one Rough Rider in the Park To rout the modern Noah's Ark Of made-in-Germany celebrities From Patagonia and the Hebrides. Arise ! nor weakly stand aghast, 0 amateur iconoclast ! Think of the Heine bust, and view The wreck of Fulton Avenue ! Go where the Harlem River breeze Laments the executed trees. Let loose the banners of sedition Against a purblind Art Commission!
Come, Wooden Indian, rise and walk, And lift destructive tomahawk; Strike home, and steel your oaken
heart,
Strike in the name of Gothic Art ! Then shall the Muses rouse and smile To see you stalk in Indian file Triumphant up Third Avenue, Your altruistic worst to do ! Wait not, nor peer 'neath lifted hand Into the Future ! Call your band ; Go forth with terrifying frown, Pull bronze and marble image down. Brave, squaw, and sachem raid the
town!
GELETT BURGESS.
OUR TRAVELLER
If thou would'st stand on Etna's burning brow,
With smoke above and roaring flame below;
And gaze adown that molten gulf revealed,
Till thy soul shuddered and thy senses reel'd:
If thou would'st beard Niag'ra in his pride,
Or stem the billows of Propontic tide;
Scale all alone some dizzy Alpine haut,
And shriek "Excelsior!" among the snow;
Would'st tempt all death, all dangers that may be —
Perils by land and perils on the sea;
This vast round world — I say, if thou would'st view it —
Then, why the dickens don't you go and do it?
H. CHOLMONDELEY-PENNELL.
Inexpensive.
100 SUCH NONSENSE!
HOW A GIRL WAS TOO RECKLESS OF GRAMMAR BY FAR
Matilda Maud Mackenzie frankly hadn't any chin, Her hands were rough, her feet she turned invariably in; Her general form was German,
By which I mean that you Her waist could not determine
Within a foot or two. And not only did she stammer, But she used the kind of grammar
That is called, for sake of euphony, askew.
From what I say about her, don't imagine I desire A prejudice against this worthy creature to inspire. She was willing, she was active, She was sober, she was kind, But she never looked attractive
And she hadn't any mind. I knew her more than slightly, And I treated her politely
When I met her, but of course I wasn't blind!
Matilda Maud Mackenzie had a habit that was droll, She spent her morning seated on a rock or on a knoll, And threw with much composure
A smallish rubber ball At an inoffensive osier
By a little waterfall; But Matilda's way of throwing Was like other people's mowing,
And she never hit the willow-tree at all !
One day as Miss Mackenzie with uncommon ardour tried To hit the mark, the missile flew exceptionally wide. And, before her eyes astounded,
On a fallen maple's trunk Ricochetted and rebounded In the rivulet, and sunk! Matilda, greatly frightened, In her grammar unenlightened,
Remarked, "Well now I ast yer, who'd 'er thunk?"
But what a marvel followed ! From the pool at once there rose A frog, the sphere of rubber balanced deftly on his nose.
He beheld her fright and frenzy And, her panic to dispel,
On his knee by Miss Mackenzie
SUCH NONSENSE!
101
He obsequiously fell. With quite as much decorum As a speaker in a forum
He started in his history to tell.
"Fair maid," he said, "I beg you do not hesitate or wince, If you'll promise that you'll wed me, I'll at once become a prince ; For a fairy, old and vicious,
An enchantment round me spun !" Then he looked up, unsuspicious,
And he saw what he had won, And in terms of sad reproach, he Made some comments, sotto voce,
(Which the publishers have bidden me to shun!)
Matilda Maud Mackenzie said, as if she meant to scold; "I never! Why, you forward thing ! Now, ain't you awful bold !" Just a glance he paused to give her, And his head was seen to clutch, Then he darted to the river,
And he dived to beat the Dutch! While the wrathful maiden panted "I don't think he was enchanted !"
(And he really didn't look it overmuch!)
The Moral: In one's language one conservative should be; Speech is silver and it never should be free !
GUY WETMORE CARRYL.
THE RETIRED PORK-BUTCHER AND THE SPOOK
I may as well
Proceed to tell About a Mister Higgs,
Who grew quite rich
In trade — the which Was selling pork and pigs.
From trade retired,
He much desired To rank with gentlefolk,
So bought a place
He called "The Chase," And furnished it — old oak.
Ancestors got
(Twelve pounds the lot,
In Tottenham Court Road) ;
A pedigree—
For nine pounds three,— The Heralds' Court bestowed.
Within the hall,
And on the wall, Hung armour bright and strong.
"To Ethelbred"-
The label read — "De Higgs, this did belong."
'Twas quite complete,
This country seat, Yet neighbours stayed away.
Nobody called,—
Higgs was blackballed,— Which caused him great dismay.
102
SUCH NONSENSE!
"Why can it be?"
One night said he When thinking of it o'er.
There came a knock
('Twas twelve o'clock) Upon his chamber door.
Higgs cried, "Come in !"
A vapour thin The keyhole wandered through.
Higgs rubbed his eyes
In mild surprise: A ghost appeared in view.
"I beg," said he,
"You'll pardon me, In calling rather late.
A family ghost,
I seek a post, With wage commensurate.
"I'll serve you well;
My 'fiendish yell' Is certain sure to please.
'Sepulchral tones,'
And 'rattling bones,' I'm very good at these.
"Five bob I charge
To roam at large, With 'clanking chains' ad lib.;
I do such things
As 'gibberings' At one-and-three per gib.
"Or, by the week,
I merely seek Two pounds — which is not dear;
Because I need,
Of course, no feed, No washing, and no beer."
Higgs thought it o'er
A bit, before He hired the family ghost,
But, finally,
He did agree To give to him the post.
It got about —
You know, no doubt, How quickly such news flies —
Throughout the place,
From "Higgses Chase" Proceeded ghostly cries.
The rumour spread,
Folks shook their head, But dropped in one by one.
A bishop came
(Forget his name), And then the thing was done.
For afterwards
All left their cards, "Because," said they, "you see,
One who can boast
A family ghost Respectable must be."
SUCH NONSENSE!
103
When it was due,
The "ghostes's" screw Higgs raised — as was but right —
They often play,
In friendly way, A game of cards at night.
G. E. FARROW.
Skilled labour can always command a good position and salary.
LILIES
Lilies, lilies, white lilies and yellow —
Lilies, lilies, purple lilies and golden —
Calla lilies, tiger lilies, lilies of the valley —
Lilies, lilies, lilies —
Bulb, bud and blossom —
What made them lilies?
If they were not lilies they would have to be something else, would they not ?
What was it that made them lilies in- stead of making them violets or roses or geraniums or petunias'?
What was it that made you yourself and me myself? What1?
Alas ! I do not know !
DON MARQUIS.
The Poetical Interrogative.
FRAUD
"I will never again," Said a mortified hen,
"Be deceived in this impudent way. Do remind me, I beg, That the crockery egg
Is a fol-de-rol, lol-de-rol lay,
Anyway ;
It is only a fol-de-rol lay."
Not a Macaulay lay.
CHRISTMAS CHIMES
Little Penelope Socrates,
A Boston maid of four, Wide opened her eyes on Christmas morn,
And looked the landscape o'er. "What is it inflates my bas de bleu?"
She asked with dignity; " 'Tis Ibsen in the original !
Oh, joy beyond degree !"
Miss Mary Cadwallader Rittenhouse
Of Philadelphia town, Awoke as much as they ever do there
And watched the snow come down. "I'm glad that it is Christmas,"
You might have heard her say, "For my family is one year older now
Than it was last Christmas day."
'Twas Christmas in giddy Gotham,
And Miss Irene de Jones Awoke at noon and yawned and yawned,
And stretched her languid bones. "I'm sorry it is Christmas,
Papa at home will stay, For 'Change is closed and he won't make
A single cent to-day."
Windily dawned the Christmas
On the city by the lake, And Miss Arabel Wabash Breezy
Was instantly awake. "What's that thing in my stocking?
Well, in two jiffs I'll know!" And she drew a grand piano forth
From 'way down in the toe.
The scathing satirical.
104
SUCH NONSENSE!
YE TOWNE GOSSIP
I'VE GOT a friend.
* # *
OVER IN Brooklyn.
* * *
AND WHEN he read in the paper.
* # *
THAT I was sick.
* * *
HE TELEPHONED.
* * *
FOR A nickel.
* * *
AND WAS sorry.
* * *
AND COULD he come over.
* * *
AND HE could.
* # *
AND DID.
* * #
AND BROUGHT a lot of flowers.
* * *
AND A basket of fruit.
* # *
AND SAT down.
* * *
AND ATE the fruit.
* * *
AND WAS sorry.
* • *
I WAS sick.
* * #
AND I'D always have trouble.
* * **
WITH MY tonsils.
* # *
AND IT was the second time.
* * *
IN A month.
* * *
THAT HE made a call.
* * *
ON A sick friend.
* * *
AND THE last time.
* * *
IT WAS so sad.
* * *
AND THE sick man.
* * *
HAD SUCH a nice wife.
* * *
AND THEY were so happy.
* * *
AND IT was all so sudden.
* * #
AND AFTERWARD.
* * *
IT WAS discovered.
* # *
HE'D LEFT no will.
* * *
AND THE poor wife.
* * *
HE FELT so sorry for her.
* * *
IT WAS an awful mess.
* • *
AND IT was a shame.
* * *
FOR ANY man.
* * *
TO BE careless.
« * «
YOU NEVER can tell.
* * *
AND DID I like flowers.
* * *
AND I did.
* • *
AND HE was so glad.
* * *
HE ALWAYS bought his.
* * *
AT THE little stand.
* # »
AT THE Hoyt street subway.
* * #
HE WAS such a nice man.
* * *
SUCH NONSENSE!
105
AND SO reasonable.
* * *
AND ONLY a month ago.
* * *
HE'D BOUGHT a big wreath.
* * *
OF WHITE carnations.
* * *
WITH "REST in Peace."
* * *
IN VIOLETS.
* # *
ACROSS THE front.
* * *
AND ALL the man charged.
* * *
WAS SEVEN dollars.
* * *
AND IT was such a nice wreath.
* * *
AND I said: "Yes.
* * *
"IF YOU'LL excuse me.
* # *
"I HAVE to gargle."
* * *
AND WENT into the bathroom.
» * *
AND GARGLED.
* • •
AND WHEN I came back.
* * *
MY WIFE was crying.
* * *
HE'D BEEN telling her something.
* * *
ABOUT A man.
* * *
WHO HAD tonsilitis.
* * *
AND GOT poisoned or something.
* * *
AND DIED.
* * *
AND I went right back.
* * *
INTO THE bathroom.
* * *
AND GARGLED.
* » *
TILL HE left.
I THANK you. KENNETH C. BEATON.
The End of a Perfect Call
L'ENVOI OF THE CUBISTS
When the last Impression is posted
and the tubes are twisted and
pinched, When the youngest Cubist is throttled
and the oldest Futurist lynched, We shall rest, and, gee ! we shall need
it— come off for a minute or two1, Till the masters of all this rubbish
shall set us agog anew.
Then those that were Cubists shall
worry; they shall sit on a picket
fence And paint with a vacuum cleaner on
the sides of canvas tents. They shall have real models to draw
from — a nude in a crazy quilt, Or a maudlin, rhomboid Scotchman,
descending the stairs- in his kilt.
And only Picasso shall praise them,
and only Matisse shall blame; And no one shall care for censure, and
no one shall care for shame. But each in his own straitjacket and
each in his separate cell Shall slather the paint as he sees it,
for the glory of Art that won't jell.
Now this was written today —
106
SUCH NONSENSE!
BALLADE CRYING ART TO STOP HER NONSENSE
Since Literature laughs and gets fat
Where adjectives grow upon trees — Since in Art the same bellow and blat
Is accounted Maestro's decrees;
Modernity falls on her knees And salaams in worshipful pose
To — pardon the phrase, if you
please —
The One Who Squirts Paint with a Hose.
You may slobber and srnear, and cry, scat!
To the canons of decency's pleas, Your brain may be cauldron or vat,
Fermenting microbical lees,
Ah ! cretinous Gentlemen, these, Who babble in Art ! — but it goes,
As long as behind it Art sees, The One Who Squirts Paint with a Hose.
The Good Folk are wondering that
We tire not of Art in Disease; Let Bedlam recover her brat,
Begotten of Sewers and Seas.
This chording of clangorous keys Is music to some, I suppose,
For all that, let Acheron seize The One Who Squirts Paint with a Hose.
ENVOY
Oh, Art ! thou Camille with a wheeze,
We pray you the Villain expose — The one who betrayed you — for He's The One Who Squirts Paint with a Hose.
EUGENE R. WHITE.
And this, twenty years ago. Verily, there is nothing new under the sun.
POST-IMPRESSIONISM
I cannot tell you how I love The canvases of Mr. Dove, Which Saturday I went to see In Mr. Thurber's gallery.
At first you fancy they are built As patterns for a crazy quilt, But soon you see that they express An ambient simultaneousness.
This thing which you would almost bet Portrays a Spanish omelette, Depicts instead, with wondrous skill, A horse and cart upon a hill.
Now, Mr. Dove has too much art To show the horse or show the cart ; Instead, he paints the creak and strain, Get it? No pike is half as plain.
This thing which would appear to show
A fancy vest scenario,
Is really quite another thing,
A flock of pigeons on the wing.
But Mr. Dove is much too keen To let a single bird be seen; To show the pigeons would not do And so he simply paints the coo.
It's all as simple as can be; He paints the things you cannot see, Just as composers please the ear With "programme" things you cannot hear.
Dove is the cleverest of chaps ; And, gazing at his rhythmic maps, I wondered (and I'm wondering yet), Whether he did them on a bet.
BERT LESTON TAYLOR.
One must admire an artist who can paint the creak and strain and coo.
WILD FLOWERS
"Of what are you afraid, my child?"
Inquired the kindly teacher. "Oh, sir! The flowers, they are wild,''
Replied the timid creature.
Peter Newell.
Though other artists oft may do well, There's no one jiist like Peter Newell; And in the art of gentle jest. He is, I think, about the best.
SUCH NONSENSE!
107
STYX RIVER ANTHOLOGY
ALICE BEN BOLT
I couldn't help weeping with delight When the boys kissed me and called me
sweet.
It was foolish, I know, To weep when I was glad; But I was young and I wasn't vci'y
well.
I was nervous, weak, anemic, A sort of human mimosa ; and I hadn't
much brains, »
And my mind wouldn't jell, anyhow. That's why I trembled with fear when
they frowned.
But they didn't frown often, For I was sweetly pretty and most
pliable. But, oh, the grim joke of asking Ben
Bolt if he remembered me ! Me!
Why, it was Ben Bolt who— Well, never mind. He paid for this
granite slab, And it's as stylish as any in the church
yard. But I wish I had a more becoming
shroud.
THE BLESSED DAMOZEL
I was one of those long, lanky, loose- jointed girls
Who fool people into believing
They are willowy and psychic and mystei-ious.
I was always hungry; I never ate enough to satisfy me,
For fear I'd get fat.
Oh, how little the world knows of the bitterness of life
To a woman who tries to keep thin!
Many thought I died of a broken heart,
But it was an empty stomach. Then Mr. Rossetti wrote about me. lie described me all dolled up in some
ladies' wearing apparel That I wore at a fancy ball. I had fasted all day, and had had my
hair marcelled And my face corrected. And I was a dream. But he seemed to think he really saw
me, Seemed to think I appeared to him
after my death. Oh, fudge ! Tlmse spiritualists are always seeing
things !
ENOCH ARDEN
Yes, it was the eternal triangle, Only they didn't call it that then. Of course everybody thought I was all
broken up
When I found Annie wed to Philip, But, as a matter of fact, I didn't care so much ; For she was one of those self -starting
weepers, And a man can't stand blubbering all
the time.
And, then, of course, IVhcn I was off on that long sea trip — Oh, well, you know what sailors are.
LITTLE EVA
To be honest, I didn't mind dying, For I had
One of these here now Dressy deaths. It was staged, you know, And, like Samson, My death brought down the house. I was a smarty kid, And they were less frequent then than later.
108
SUCH NONSENSE!
Oh, I was the Mary Pickford of my
time,
And I rest content With my notoriety.
LUCY
Yes, I am in my grave,
And you bet it makes a difference to
him! For we were to be married, — at least,
I think we were, And he'd made me promise to deed
him the house.
But I had to go and get appendicitis, And they took me to the hospital. It was a nice hospital, clean. And Tables Reserved For Ladies. Well, my heart gave out. He came and stood over my grave, And registered deep concern. And now, he's going round with that Hen-minded Hetty What's-her-name ! Her with her Whistler's Mother and
her Baby Stuart On her best-room wall ! And I hate her, and I'm glad she
squints.
Well, I suppose I lived my life, But it was Life in name only. And I'm mad at the whole world !
OPHELIA
No, it wasn't suicide,
But I had heard so much of those mud
baths,
I thought I'd try one. Ugh ! it was a mess ! Weeds, slime, and tangled vines! Oh,
me!
Had I been Annette Kellerman Or even a real mermaid, I had lived to tell the tale. But I slid down and under, And so Will Shaxpur told it for me.
Just as well.
But I think my death scene is unex- celled
By any in cold print.
It beats that scrawny, red-headed old thing of Tom Hood's
All hollow!
CASABIANCA
I played to the Grand Stand!
Sure I did,
And I made good.
Ain't I in McGuffey's Third Reader? ^
Don't they speak pieces about me Fri- day afternoons?
Don't everybody know the first two lines of my story, —
And no more?
Say, I was there with the goods,
Wasn't I?
And it paid.
But I wish Movin' Pitchers had been invented then!
ANNABEL LEE
They may say all they like About germs and micro-crocuses, — Or whatever they are! But my set opinion is, — If you want to get a good, old-fash- ioned chills and fever, Just poke around
In a damp, messy place by the sea, Without rubbers on. A good cold wind, Blowing out of a cloud, by night, Will give you a harder shaking ague Than all the bacilli in the Basilica. It did me.
ANGUS MCPHAIRSON
Oh, of course,
It's always some dratted petticoat !
Just because that little flibbertigibbet,
SUCH NONSENSE!
109
Annie Laurie
Had a white throat and a blue e'e, She played the very devil with my
peace of mind. She'd dimple at me Till I was aboot crazy; And then laugh at me through her
dimples !
She was my bespoke. And I'd beg her to have the banns
called, —
But there was no pinning her down. Well, she was so bonny That like a fool, I said I'd lay me doon And dee for her. And, — like a fool, — I did.
CAROLYN WELLS.
The ones Mr. Masters forgot.
THE NEO-NEOISM
I have been paying attention To the various movements in Art, In Fiction and Poetry, particularly. Most of them I am unable to imitate,
even if I cared to do so. Some of them are sincere; Most of them are phony. Frank discussions of human relations Is a fine thing; I am for it. But Art for Obstetrics' sake, that,
Mawruss,
Is something else again. As to the New Poetry, should you ask
me,
I should answer No. Briefly, and in a word, NO ! Henley could do it, but Witter Bynner
and Amy Lowell can't. Neither can I.
FRANKLIN P. ADAMS.
Many a true jest spoken in words.
THE MESSED DAMOZEL
At the Cubist Exhibition
The Messed Damozel leaned out
From the gold cube of Heav'n; There were three cubes within her
hands, And the cubes in her hair were
seven ; I looked, and looked, and looked, and
looked — I could not see her, even.
Her robe, a cube from clasp to hem,
Was moderately clear; Methought I saw two cubic eyes,
When I had looked a year; But when I turned to tell the world,
Those eyes did disappear !
It was the rampart of some house That she was standing on ;
That much, at least, was plain to me As her I gazed upon;
But even as I gazed, alas ! The rampart, too, was gone!
(I saw her smile!) Oh, no, I didn't, Though long mine eyes did stare ;
The cubes closed down and shut her
out; I wept in deep despair;
But this I know, and know full well — She simply wasn't there!
CHARLES HANSON TOWNE.
He saiv he couldn't see her, which was surely seeing some.
110 SUCH NONSENSE!
ELLEN McJONES ABERDEEN
Macphairson Clonglocketty Angus McClan
Was the son of an elderly labouring man ;
You've guessed him a Scotchman, shrewd reader, at sight,
And pYaps altogether, shrewd reader, you're right.
From the bonnie blue Forth to the beastly Deeside,
Round by Ding-wall and Wrath to the mouth of the Clyde,
There wasn't a child or a woman or man
Who could pipe with Clonglocketty Angus McClan.
No other could wake such detestable groans,
With reed and with chaunter — with bag and with drones:
All day and all night he delighted the chiels
With sniggering pibrochs and jiggety reels.
He'd clamber a mountain and squat on the ground, And the neighbouring maidens would gather around To list to his pipes and to gaze in his een, Especially Ellen McJones Aberdeen.
All loved their McClan, save a Sassenach brute, Who came to the Highlands to fish and to shoot; He dressed himself up in a Highlander way; Tho' his name it was Pattison Corby Torbay.
Torbay had incurred a good deal of expense To make him a Scotchman in every sense; But this is a matter, you'll readily own, That isn't a question of tailors alone.
A Sassenach chief may be bonily built, He may purchase a sporran, a bonnet, and kilt; Stick a skean in his hose — wear an acre of stripes — » But he cannot assume an affection for pipes.
Clonglocketty's pipings all night and all day Quite frenzied poor Pattison Corby Torbay; The girls were amused at his singular spleen, Especially Ellen McJones Aberdeen.
"Macphairson Clonglocketty Angus, my lad, With pibrochs and reels you are driving me mad. If you really must play on that cursed affair, My goodness! play something resembling an air."
SUCH NONSENSE! Ill
Boiled over the blood of Macphairson McClan — The Clan of Clonglocketty rose as one man; For all were enraged at the insult, I ween- Especially Ellen McJones Aberdeen.
"Let's show," said McClan, "to this Sassenach loon That the bagpipes can play him a regular tune. Let's see," said McClan, as he thoughtfully sat, " 'In my Cottage' is easy — I'll practise at that."
He blew at his "Cottage," and blew with a will, For a year, seven months, and a fortnight, until (You'll hardly believe it) McClan, I declare, Elicited something resembling an air.
It was wild — it was fitful — as wild as the breeze — It wandered about into several keys; It was jerky, spasmodic, and harsh, I'm aware; But still it distinctly suggested an air.
The Sassenach screamed, and the Sassenach danced; He shrieked in his agony — bellowed and pranced; And the maidens who gathered rejoiced at the scene, Especially Ellen McJones Aberdeen.
"Hech gather, hech gather, hech gather around; And fill a' ye lungs wi' the exquisite sound. An air fra' the bagpipes — beat that if ye can : Hurrah for Clonglocketty Angus McClan !"
The fame of his piping spread over the land : Respectable widows proposed for his hand, And maidens came flocking to sit on the green — Especially Ellen McJones Aberdeen.
One morning the fidgety Sassenach swore He'd stand it no longer — he drew his claymore, And (this was, I think, extremely bad taste) Divided Clonglocketty close to the waist.
Oh ! loud were the wailings for Angus McClan, Oh ! deep was the grief for that excellent man — The maids stood aghast at the horrible scene, Especially Ellen McJones Aberdeen.
It sorrowed poor Pattison Corby Torbay To find them "take on" in this serious way;
112
SUCH NONSENSE!
He pitied the poor little fluttering birds,
And solaced their souls with the following words: —
"Oh, maidens," said Pattison, touching his hat, "Don't blubber, my dears, for a fellow like that; Observe, I'm a very superior man, A much better fellow than Angus Median."
They smiled when he winked and addressed them as "dears," And they all of them vowed, as they dried up their tears, A pleasanter gentleman never was seen — Especially Ellen McJones Aberdeen.
WILLIAM S. GILBERT.
There's a lot in the tale, and still more in the tellin' Of the canny, observant, ubiquitous Ellen.
SOME LITTLE BUG
In these days of indigestion It is oftentimes a question
As to what to eat and what to leave
alone;
For each microbe and bacillus Has a different way to kill us,
And in time they always claim us
for their own.
There are germs of every kind In any food that you can find
In the market or upon the bill of
fare.
Drinking water's just as risky As the so-called deadly whiskey, And it's often a mistake to breathe the air.
Some little bug is going to find you
some day, Some little bug will creep behind you
some day,
Then he'll send for his bug friends And all your earthly trouble ends; Some little bug is going to find you some day.
The inviting green cucumber Gets most everybody's number,
While the green corn has a system of
its own;
Though a radish seems nutritious Its behaviour is quite vicious,
And a doctor will be coming to your
home.
Eating lobster cooked or plain Is only flirting with ptomaine,
While an oyster sometimes has a lot
to say,
But the clams we eat in chowder Make the angels chant the louder, For they know that we'll be with them right away.
Take a slice of nice fried onion And you're fit for Dr. Munyon,
Apple dumplings kill you quicker
than a train.
Chew a cheesy midnight "rabbit" And a grave you'll soon inhabit — Ah, to eat at all is such a foolish
game.
Eating huckleberry pie Is a pleasing way to die,
While sauerkraut brings on soften- ing of the brain. When you e?l banana fritters Every undertaker titters,
And the casket makers nearly go in- sane.
SUCH NONSENSE!
113
Some little bug is going to find you
some day, Some little bug will creep behind you
same day,
With a nervous little quiver He'll give cirrhosis of the liver; Some little bug is going to find you some day.
When cold storage vaults I visit I can only say what is it
Makes poor mortals fill their systems
with such stuff?
Now, for breakfast, prunes are dandy If a stomach pump is handy
And your doctor can be found quite
soon enough.
Eat a plate of fine pigs' knuckles And the head stone cutter chuckles, While the grave digger makes a note
upon his cuff.
Eat that lovely red bologna And you'll wear a wooden kirnona, As your relatives start scrapping
'bout your stuff.
Some little bug is going to find you
some day, Some little bug will creep behind you
some day,
Eating juicy sliced pineapple Makes the sexton dust the chapel ; Some little bug is going to find you some day.
All those crazy foods they mix Will float us 'cross the River Styx,
Or they'll start us climbing up the
milky way.
And the meals we eat in courses Mean a hearse and two black horses
So before a meal some people always
pray.
Luscious grapes breed 'pendicitis, And the juice leads to gastritis,
So there's only death to greet us
either way;
And fried liver's nice, bnt, mind you, Friends will soon ride slow behind you And the papers then will have nice things to say.
Some little bug is going to find you
some day, Some little bug will creep behind you
some day
Eat some sauce, they call it chili, On your breast they'll place a lily; Some little bug is going to find you some day.
ROY ATWELL.
Man that's born of woman is of few days and full of sorrow.
Slunn.
SUCH NONSENSE!
THE FABLE OF THE TWO MAN- DOLIN PLAYERS AND THE WILLING PERFORMER
A very attractive Debutante knew two Young Men who called on her every Thursday Evening, and brought their Mandolins along.
They were Conventional Young Men, of the Kind that you see wear- ing Spring Overcoats in the Clothing Advertisements. One was named Fred, and the other was Eustace.
The Mothers of the Neighbourhood often remarked, "What Perfect Man- ners Fred and Eustace have !" Mere- ly as an aside it may be added that Fred and Eustace were more Popular with the Mothers than they were with the Younger Set, although no one could say a Word against either of them. Only it was rumoured in Keen Society that they didn't Belong. The Fact that they went Calling in a Crowd, and took their Mandolins along, may give the Acute Reader some Idea of the Life that Fred and Eustace held out to the Young Women of their Acquaintance.
The Debutante's name was Myrtle.