Chapter XI: How to Read Poetry (1)

In order to avoid the “singsong” habit, common to so many while reading poetry, let us remember to make but a very delicate pause at the end of each line. Of course, if the sense requires a decided pause, one should not fail to make it. Browning’s “My Star” is a splendid example of where but a very slight swelling of the voice is necessary to indicate the end of each line.

All that I know
Of a certain star
Is, it can throw
(Like the angled spar)
Now a dart of red,
Now a dart of blue;
Till my friends have said
They would fain see, too,
My star that dartles the red and the blue!
Then it stops like a bird; like a flower, hangs furled:
They must solace themselves with the Saturn above it.
What matter to me if their star is a world?
Mine has opened its soul to me; therefore I love it.

To illustrate the contrary to this let us refer to a few lines from Riley’s “The South Wind and the Sun,” noting that the poise of the tone is considerably longer at the end of each line.

And the humming-bird that hung
Like a jewel up among
The tilted honeysuckle-horns,
They mesmerized and swung
In the palpitating air,
Drowsed with odors strange and rare,
And, with whispered laughter, slipped away
And left him hanging there.

We can hardly overestimate the value of a careful study of the lyric to the student of expressive speech. It demands superior powers to render a lyric adequately. Bertha Kuntz Baker, the great American reader, thus suggestively writes on this subject:

To clarify the diction, go over the poem, word by word, conform
each word carefully, repeatedly to your ideal of that word,
giving the vowel its fullest possible value, tucking in the
consonants as clear, light envelopes around and between the
vowels.

PISGAH-SIGHT

BY ROBERT BROWNING

Good, to forgive:
Best, to forget!
Living, we fret;
Dying, we live.
Fretless and free,
Soul, clap thy pinion!
Earth have dominion,
Body, o’er thee!

Wander at will,
Day after day,—
Wander away,
Wandering still—
Soul that canst soar!
Body may slumber:
Body shall cumber
Soul-flight no more.

Waft of soul’s wing!
What lies above?
Sunshine and Love,
Skyblue and Spring!
Body hides—where?
Ferns of all feather,
Mosses and heather,
Yours be the care!

DAWN

BY PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR

An angel, robed in spotless white,
Bent down and kissed the sleeping night.
Night woke to blush: the sprite was gone;
Men saw the blush and called it Dawn.

FLOWER IN THE CRANNIED WALL

BY LORD TENNYSON

Flower in the crannied wall,
I pluck you out of the crannies,
I hold you here, root and all, in my hand,
Little flower—but if I could understand
What you are, root and all, and all in all,
I should know what God and man is.

THE WORKER’S GUERDON

BY FRANK PRESTON SMART

Expect nor fame, nor gold, nor any praise—
The world puts not its meed in every hand;
Work on and still be thankful all thy days
If even one shall see and understand!

MY HEART LEAPS UP

BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky:
So was it when my life began;
So is it now I am a man;
So be it when I shall grow old,
Or let me die!
The child is father of the man;
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.

When we think of melody in speech, we immediately think of the lyric. In form and in spirit it approaches nearest towards music, for it is “emotion all compact.” When we have stimulated within us a noble emotion, we begin at once to respond in some rhythmic action, a beat of our foot, sway of the body, or humming in a tuneful way. There is melody in prose as well as in poetry, only it is not so pronounced. Lincoln’s “Gettysburg Address” is a splendid example of prose-poetry. We are under obligation to James Raymond Perry in the _North American Review_ for metrically dividing this oration:

Four score and seven years ago
Our fathers brought forth upon this continent
A new nation conceived in liberty
And dedicated to the proposition
That all men are created equal.
Now we are engaged in a great civil war,
Testing whether that nation, or any nation
So conceived and so dedicated
Can long endure. We are met
On a great battle field of that war.
We have come to dedicate a portion of
That field as a final resting place
For those who here gave their lives
That this nation might live.
It is altogether fitting and proper
That we should do this
But in a larger sense
We cannot dedicate, we cannot consecrate,
We cannot hallow this ground. The brave men,
Living and dead, who struggled here,
Have consecrated it far above our power
To add or detract. The world will little note
Nor long remember what we say here,
But it can never forget what they did here.
It is for us, the living, rather, to be dedicated here
To the unfinished work which they who fought here
Have thus far so nobly advanced.
It is rather for us to be here dedicated
To the great task remaining before us;
That from these honored dead we take
Increased devotion to that cause for which
They gave the last full measure of devotion;
That we here highly resolve that these dead
Shall not have died in vain, that this nation,
Under God, shall have a new birth of freedom;
And that the government of the people,
By the people, and for the people,
Shall not perish from the earth.

Channing’s “Symphony” is another interesting illustration of musical prose:

To live content with small means, to seek elegance rather than
luxury, and refinement rather than fashion; to be worthy, not
respectable; and wealthy, not rich; to study hard, think quietly,
talk gently, act frankly; to listen to stars and birds, babes and
sages, with open heart; to bear all cheerfully, do all bravely,
await occasions, hurry never; in a word, to let the spiritual,
unbidden and unconscious, grow up through the common. This is to
be my symphony.

The most striking example of all is the following excerpt taken from Ingersoll’s oration entitled “A Vision of War”:

These heroes are dead. They died for liberty—they died for us.
They are at rest. They sleep in the land they made free, under
the flag they rendered stainless, under the solemn pines, the
sad hemlocks, the tearful willows, and the embracing vines.
They sleep beneath the shadows of the clouds, careless alike of
sunshine or of storm, each in the windowless palace of Rest.
Earth may run red with other wars: they are at peace. In the
midst of battle, in the roar of conflict, they found the serenity
of death. I have one sentiment for soldiers living and dead:
Cheers for the living; tears for the dead.

POETICAL SELECTIONS

Colloquial
Humorous
Humorous Dialect
Pathetic
Dramatic
Sublime
Lyric

Poetry is the highest, most beautiful and perfect verbal expression of thought allowed to man. The higher the poetry the more is it permeated with elevating human emotion.

COLLOQUIAL SELECTIONS IN POETRY

THE PESSIMIST

BY BEN KING

Nothing to do but work,
Nothing to eat but food,
Nothing to wear but clothes
To keep one from going nude.

Nothing to breathe but air;
Quick as a flash ’tis gone;
Nowhere to fall but off,
Nowhere to stand but on.

Nothing to comb but hair,
Nowhere to sleep but in bed,
Nothing to weep but tears,
Nothing to bury but dead.

Nothing to sing but songs,
Ah, well, alas! alack!
Nowhere to go but out,
Nowhere to come but back.

Nothing to see but sights,
Nothing to quench but thirst,
Nothing to have but what we’ve got;
Thus through life we are cursed.

Nothing to strike but a gait;
Everything moves that goes.
Nothing at all but common sense
Can ever withstand these woes.

THE RIVALS

BY PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR

’Twas three an’ thirty year ago,
When I was ruther young, you know,
I had my last an’ only fight
About a gal one summer night.
’Twas me an’ Zekel Johnson; Zeke
’N’ me ’d be’n spattin’ ’bout a week,
Each of us tryin’ his best to show
That he was Liza Jones’s beau.
We couldn’t neither prove the thing,
Fur she was fur too sharp to fling
One over fur the other one
An’ by so doin’ stop the fun
That we chaps didn’t have the sense
To see she got at our expense.
But that’s the way a feller does,
Fur boys is fools an’ allus was;
An’ when they’s females in the game
I reckon men’s about the same.
Well, Zeke an’ me went on that way
An’ fussed an’ quarreled day by day;
While Liza, mindin’ not the fuss,
Jest kep’ a-goin’ with both of us,
Tell we pore chaps, that’s Zeke an’ me,
Was jest plum mad with jealousy.
Well, fur a time we kep’ our places,
An’ only showed by frownin’ faces
An’ looks ’at well our meanin’ boded
How full o’ fight we both was loaded.
At last it come, the thing broke out,
An’ this is how it come about.
One night (’twas fair, you’ll all agree)
I got Eliza’s company,
An’ leavin’ Zekel in the lurch,
Went trottin’ off with her to church.
An’ jest as we had took our seat,
(Eliza lookin’ fair an’ sweet),
Why, I jest couldn’t help but grin
When Zekel come a-bouncin’ in
As furious as the law allows.
He’d jest be’n up to Liza’s house,
To find her gone, then come to church
To have this end put to his search.
I guess I laffed that meetin’ through,
An’ not a mortal word I knew
Of what the preacher preached er read
Er what the choir sung er said.
Fur every time I’d turn my head
I couldn’t skeercely help but see
’At Zekel had his eye on me.
An’ he ’ud sort o’ turn an’ twist
An’ grind his teeth an’ shake his fist.
I laughed, fur la! the hull church seen us,
An’ knowed that suthin’ was between us.
Well, meetin’ out, we started hum,
I sorter feelin’ what would come.
We’d jest got out, when up stepped Zeke,
An’ said, “Scuse me, I’d like to speak
To you a minute.” “Cert,” said I—
A-nudgin’ Liza on the sly
An’ laughin’ in my sleeve with glee,
I asked her, please, to pardon me.
We walked away a step er two,
Jest to git out o’ Liza’s view,
An’ then Zeke said, “I want to know
Ef you think you’re Eliza’s beau,
An’ ’at I’m goin’ to let her go
Hum with sich a chap as you?”
An’ I said bold, “You bet I do.”
Then Zekel, sneerin’, said ’at he
Didn’t want to hender me,
But then he ’lowed the gal was his
An’ ’at he guessed he knowed his biz,
An’ wasn’t feared o’ all my kin
With all my friends an’ chums throwed in.
Some other things he mentioned there
That no born man could no ways bear
Er think o’ ca’mly tryin’ to stan’
Ef Zeke had be’n the bigges’ man
In town, an’ not the leanest runt
’At time an’ labor ever stunt.
An’ so I let my fist go “bim.”
I thought I’d mos’ nigh finished him.
But Zekel didn’t take it so.
He jest ducked down an’ dodged my blow
An’ then come back at me so hard,
I guess I must ’a’ hurt the yard,
Er spilet the grass plot where I fell,
An’ sakes alive it hurt me; well,
It wouldn’t be’n so bad you see,
But he jest kep’ a-hittin’ me.
An’ I hit back an’ kicked an’ pawed,
But ’t seemed ’twas mostly air I clawed,
While Zekel used his science well
A-makin’ every motion tell.
He punched an’ hit, why, goodness lands,
Seemed like he had a dozen hands.
Well, afterwhile, they stopped the fuss,
An’ some one kindly parted us.
All beat an’ cuffed an’ clawed an’ scratched,
An’ needin’ both our faces patched,
Each started hum a different way;
An’ what o’ Liza, do you say,
Why, Liza—little humbug—darn her,
Why, she’d gone home with Hiram Turner.

—Copyright by _Dodd, Mead & Co._, New York, and used by special arrangement.

THE FIRST FURROW

BY JAMES J. MONTAGUE

Don’t you ever feel a yearnin’, ’long about this time o’ year,
For a robin’s song to tell you that the summer time is near?
Don’t you ever sort o’ hanker for the blackbird’s whistlin’ call,
Echoin’ through the hillside orchard, where the blossoms used to fall?
Don’t you wish that you were out there, breathin’ in the April air,
Full o’ glad an’ careless boyhood, an’ with strength an’ health to spare?
Don’t it _hurt_ you to remember, when the springtime comes around,
How the first, long, rollin’ furrow used to wake the sleepy ground?

How’d you like to take the children, born to dirty city streets,
Out to where the brook goes pulsin’ when the heart o’ nature beats?
How’d you like to watch ’em wonder at the boomin’ of the bees,
Or to see ’em dodge the petals that are snowin’ from the trees?
How’d you like to see their faces catch the color o’ the rose,
As they raced across the meadow where the earliest crocus grows?
Wouldn’t it be joy to watch ’em follow on behind the plow,
As it cut the first brown furrow, like it’s doin’ out there now?

SUNSHINE

BY FRED EMERSON BROOKS

Some people have the sunshine,
While others have the rain;
But God don’t change the weather
Because the folks complain.
Don’t waste your time in grumbling,
Nor wrinkle up your brow;
Some other soul has trouble,
Most likely has it now.

When nature lies in shadow,
On damp and cloudy days,
Don’t blame the sun, good people,
But loan a few bright rays.
The sun is always shining
Above the misty shroud,
And if your world be murky,
The fault lies in the cloud.

Take sunshine to your neighbor,
In all you do and say;
Have sunshine in your labor,
And sunshine in your play.
Where’er the storm-cloud lowers,
Take in the sunlight glow,
And Heaven will show what flowers
From seeds of kindness grow.

—Copyright by _Forbes & Co._, Chicago, and used by kind permission of author and publisher.

“CICELY”

ALKALI STATION

BY BRET HARTE

Cicely says you’re a poet: maybe; I ain’t much on rhyme:
I reckon you’d give me a hundred, and beat me every time.
Poetry!—that’s the way some chaps puts up an idee,
But I takes mine “straight without sugar,” and that’s what’s the matter
with me.

Poetry!—just look round you,—alkali, rock, and sage;
Sage-brush, rock, and alkali; ain’t it a pretty page!
Sun in the east at mornin’, sun in the west at night,
And the shadow of this ’yer station the on’y thing moves in sight.

Poetry!—Well now—Polly! Polly run to your mam;
Run right away, my pooty! By by! Ain’t she a lamb?
Poetry!—that reminds me o’ suthin’ right in that suit:
Jest shet that door thar, will yer?—for Cicely’s ears is cute.

Ye noticed Polly,—the baby? A month afore she was born,
Cicely—my old woman—was moody-like and forlorn;
Out of her head and crazy, and talked of flowers and trees;
Family man yourself, sir? Well, you know what a woman be’s.

Narvous she was, and restless,—said that she “couldn’t stay,”
Stay,—and the nearest woman seventeen miles away.
But I fixed it up with the doctor, and he said he would be on hand,
And I kinder stuck by the shanty, and fenced in that bit o’ land.

One night,—the tenth of October,—I woke with a chill and fright,
For the door it was standing open, and Cicely warn’t in sight,
But a note was pinned on the blanket, which said that she “couldn’t
stay,”
But had gone to visit her neighbor,—seventeen miles away.

When and how she stampeded, I didn’t wait for to see,
For out in the road, next minit, I started as wild as she:
Running first this way and that way, like a hound that is off the scent,
For there warn’t no track in the darkness to tell me the way she went.

I’ve had some mighty mean moments afore I kem to this spot,—
Lost on the plains in ’50, drowned almost, and shot;
But out on this alkali desert, a hunting a crazy wife,
Was ra’ly as on-satis-factory as anything in my life.

“Cicely! Cicely! Cicely!” I called, and I held my breath,
And “Cicely!” came from the canyon,—and all was as still as death.
And “Cicely! Cicely! Cicely!” came from the rocks below,
And jest but a whisper of “Cicely!” down from them peaks of snow.

I ain’t what you call religious,—but I jest looked up to the sky,
And—this ’yer’s to what I’m coming, and maybe ye think I lie:
But up away to the east’ard, yaller and big and far,
I saw of a suddent rising the singlerist kind of star.

Big and yaller and dancing, it seemed to beckon to me:
Yaller and big and dancing, such as you never see:
Big and yaller and dancing,—I never saw such a star,
And I thought of them sharps in the Bible, and I went for it then and
thar.

Over the brush and bowlders I stumbled and pushed ahead:
Keeping the star afore me, I went wharever it led.
It might hev been for an hour, when suddent and peart and nigh,
Out of the yearth afore me thar riz up a baby’s cry.

Listen! thar’s the same music; but her lungs they are stronger now
Than the day I packed her and her mother,—I’m derned if I jest know how.
But the doctor kem the next minit, and the joke o’ the whole thing is
That Cis. never knew what happened from that very night to this!

But Cicely says you’re a poet, and maybe you might, some day,
Jest sling her a rhyme ’bout a baby that was born in a curious way,
And see what she says; but, old fellow, when you speak of the star,
don’t tell
As how ’twas the doctor’s lantern,—for maybe ’twon’t sound so well.

—Copyright by _Houghton Mifflin & Co._, Boston, and used by their kind permission.

AN ORDER FOR A PICTURE

BY ALICE CARY

O good painter, tell me true,
Has your hand the cunning to draw
Shapes of things that you never saw?
Ay? Well, here is an order for you.

Woods and cornfields, a little brown,—
The picture must not be over-bright,—
Yet all in the golden and gracious light
Of a cloud, when the summer sun is down.

Alway and alway, night and morn,
Woods upon woods, with fields of corn
Lying between them, not quite sere,
And not in the full thick, leafy bloom,
When the wind can hardly find breathing-room
Under their tassels,—cattle near,
Biting shorter the short green grass,
And a hedge of sumach and sassafras,
With bluebirds twittering all around,—
(Ah, good painter, you can’t paint sound)—
These and the house where I was born,
Low and little, and black and old,
With children, many as it can hold,
All at the windows, open wide,—
Heads and shoulders clear outside,
And fair young faces all ablush:
Perhaps you may have seen, some day,
Roses crowding the selfsame way,
Out of a wilding, wayside bush.
Listen closer. When you have done
With woods and cornfields and grazing herds,
A lady, the loveliest ever the sun
Looked down upon, you must paint for me;
Oh, if I only could make you see
The clear blue eyes, the tender smile,
The sovereign sweetness, the gentle grace,
The woman’s soul, and the angel’s face
That are beaming on me all the while!—
I need not speak these foolish words:
Yet one word tells you all I would say,—
She is my mother: you will agree
That all the rest may be thrown away.

Two little urchins at her knee
You must paint, sir: one like me,—
The other with a clearer brow,
And the light of his adventurous eyes
Flashing with boldest enterprise:
At ten years old he went to sea,—
God knoweth if he be living now,—
He sailed in the good ship _Commodore_,—
Nobody ever crossed her track
To bring us news, and she never came back.
Ah, ’tis twenty long years and more
Since that old ship went out of the bay
With my great-hearted brother on her deck;
I watched him till he shrank to a speck,
And his face was toward me all the way.
Bright his hair was, a golden brown,
The time we stood at our mother’s knee:
That beauteous head, if it did go down,
Carried sunshine into the sea.

Out in the fields one summer night
We were together, half afraid
Of the corn leaves rustling, and of the shade
Of the high hills, stretching so far and still,—
Loitering till after the low little light
Of the candle shone through the open door,
And over the haystack’s pointed top,
All of a tremble, and ready to drop,
The first half-hour, the great yellow star
That we with staring, ignorant eyes,
Had often and often watched to see
Propped and held in its place in the skies
By the fork of a tall, red mulberry tree,
Which close in the edge of our flax-field grew,—
Dead at the top—just one branch full
Of leaves, notched round, and lined with wool,
From which it tenderly shook the dew
Over our heads, when we came to play
In its handbreadth of shadow, day after day:—
Afraid to go home, sir; for one of us bore
A nest full of speckled and thin-shelled eggs,—
The other, a bird held fast by the legs,
Not so big as a straw of wheat:
The berries we gave her she wouldn’t eat,
But cried and cried, till we held her bill,
So slim and shining, to keep her still.

ONE, TWO, THREE

BY HENRY C. BUNNER

It was an old, old, old, old lady,
And a boy who was half-past three,
And the way that they played together
Was beautiful to see.

She couldn’t go running and jumping,
And the boy, no more could he;
For he was a thin little fellow,
With a thin little twisted knee.

They sat in the yellow sunlight,
Out under the maple tree;
And the game that they played I’ll tell you,
Just as it was told to me.

It was hide-and-go-seek they were playing,
Though you’d never have known it to be—
With an old, old, old, old lady,
And a boy with a twisted knee.

The boy would bend his face down
On his one little sound right knee,
And he’d guess where she was hiding,
In guesses One, Two, Three.

“You are in the china closet!”
He would cry, and laugh with glee.
It wasn’t the china closet;
But he still had Two and Three.

“You are up in papa’s big bedroom,
In the chest with the queer old key!”
And she said: “You are warm and warmer;
But you’re not quite right,” said she.

“It can’t be the little cupboard
Where Mamma’s things used to be,
So it must be the clothespress, Gran’ma!”
And he found her with his Three.

Then she covered her face with her fingers,
That were wrinkled and white and wee,
And she guessed where the boy was hiding,
With a One and a Two and a Three.

And they never had stirred from their places,
Right under the maple tree—
This old, old, old, old lady,
And the boy with a lame little knee;
This dear, dear, dear old lady,
And the boy who was half-past three.

RECIPROCITY

BY H. BEDFORD-JONES

Would you have men play square with you,
Play fair with you, and bear with you
In all the little weaknesses so easy to condemn?
Then simply try to do the same—
Hold up your head and play the game,
And when the others are to blame
Be sure to bear with them!
Would you have men, when new to you,
Be true to you and do to you
The things that faith and brother-love and nothing else impel?
Then give them faith and brother-love
And set sincerity above
All other things—and it will prove
That you have builded well!

THE YOUNG TRAMP

BY CHAS. F. ADAMS

Hello, thar, stranger! Whar yer frum?
Come in and make yerself ter hum!
We’re common folks, ain’t much on style;
Come in and stop a little while;
’Twon’t do no harm ter rest yer some.

Youngster, yer pale, and don’t look well!
What, way from Bosting? Naow, dew tell!
Why, that’s a hundred mile or so;
What started yer, I’d like ter know,
On sich a tramp; got goods ter sell?

No home, no friends? Naow that’s too bad!
Wall, cheer up, boy, and don’t be sad,—
Wife, see what yer can find ter eat,
And put the coffee on ter heat,—
We’ll fix yer up all right, my lad.

Willing ter work, can’t git a job,
And not a penny in yer fob?
Wall, naow, that’s rough, I dew declare!
What, tears? Come, youngster, I can’t bear
Ter see yer take on so, and sob.

How came yer so bad off, my son?
Father was killed? ’Sho’; whar? Bull Run?
Why, I was in that scrimmage, lad,
And got used up, too, pretty bad;
I shan’t forgit old ’sixty-one!

So yer were left in Bosting, hey!
A baby when he went away?
Those Bosting boys were plucky, wife,
Yer know one of ’em saved my life,
Else I would not be here to-day.

’Twas when the “Black Horse Cavalcade”
Swept down on our small brigade,
I got the shot that made me lame,
When down on me a trooper came,
And this ’ere chap struck up his blade.

Poor feller! He was stricken dead;
The trooper’s sabre cleaved his head.
Joe Billings was my comrade’s name,
He was a Bosting boy, and game!
I almost wished I’d died, instead.

Why, lad! what makes yer tremble so?
Your father! what, my comrade Joe?
And you his son? Come ter my heart.
My home is yours; I’ll try in part,
Ter pay his boy the debt I owe.

HULLO!

BY SAM WALTER FOSS

When you see a man in woe,
Walk straight up and say, “Hullo!”
Say “Hullo!” and “How d’ye do?
How’s the world been using you?”
Slap the fellow on his back,
Bring your hand down with a whack!
Waltz straight up and don’t go slow,
Shake his hand and say “Hullo!”

Is he clothed in rags? Oh, ho.
Walk straight up and say “Hullo!”
Rags are but a cotton roll
Just for wrapping up a soul;
And a soul is worth a true
Hale and hearty “How d’ye do?”
Don’t wait for the crowd to go.
Walk straight up and say “Hullo!”

When big vessels meet, they say,
They salute and sail away;
Just the same as you and me,
Lonely ships upon the sea,
Each one sailing his own jog
For a port beyond the fog;
Let your speaking trumpet blow,
Lift your horn and cry, “Hullo!”

Say “Hullo!” and “How d’ye do?”
Other folks are good as you.
When you leave your house of clay,
Wandering in the far away,
When you travel through the strange
Country far beyond the range,
Then the souls you’ve cheered will know
Who you be, and say “Hullo!”

COLUMBUS

BY ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH

How in heaven’s name did Columbus get over,
Is a pure wonder to me, I protest,
Cabot, and Raleigh, too, that well-read rover,
Frobisher, Dampier, Drake, and the rest;
Bad enough all the same,
For them that after came;
But in great heaven’s name,
How he should think
That on the other brink
Of this wild waste, terra firma should be,
Is a pure wonder, I must say, to me.

How a man should ever hope to get thither,
E’en if he knew that there was another side;
But to suppose he should come any whither,
Sailing straight on into chaos untried,
In spite of the motion,
Across the whole ocean,
To stick to the notion
That in some nook or bend
Of a sea without end,
He should find North and South America,
Was a pure madness, indeed, I must say.

What if wise men had, as far back as Ptolemy,
Judged that the earth like an orange was round,
None of them ever said, Come along, follow me,
Sail to the West, and the East will be found.
Many a day before
Ever they’d come ashore
Sadder and wiser men,
They’d have turned back again;
And that he did not, but did cross the sea,
Is a pure wonder, I must say, to me.

—Copyright by _Macmillan & Co._, New York, and used by arrangement.

THE USUAL WAY

ANONYMOUS

There was once a little man, and his rod and line he took,
For he said, “I’ll go a-fishing in the neighboring brook.”
And it chanced a little maiden was walking out that day,
And they met—in the usual way.

Then he sat down beside her, and an hour or two went by,
But still upon the grassy brink his rod and line did lie;
“I thought,” she shyly whispered, “you’d be fishing all the day!”
And he was—in the usual way.

So he gravely took his rod in hand and threw the line about,
But the fish perceived distinctly he was not looking out;
And he said, “Sweetheart, I love you,” but she said she could not stay,
But she did—in the usual way.

Then the stars came out above them, and she gave a little sigh
As they watched the silver ripples like the moments running by;
“We must say good-by,” she whispered by the alders old and gray.
And they did—in the usual way.

And day by day beside the stream, they wandered to and fro,
And day by day the fishes swam securely down below,
Till this little story ended, as such little stories may,
Very much—in the usual way.

And now that they are married, do they always bill and coo?
Do they never fret and quarrel, like other couples do?
Does he cherish her and love her? Does she honor and obey?
Well, they do—in the usual way.

HUMOROUS SELECTIONS IN POETRY

LITTLE MISS STUDY AND LITTLE MISS PLAY

BY FRED EMERSON BROOKS

Little Miss Study and little Miss Play,
Each came to the school from an opposite way;
While little Miss Study could always recite,
This little Miss Play hardly ever was right;
For little Miss Study found she could do more
By learning her lessons the evening before;
But, fond of a frolic, this little Miss Play
Would put off her lessons until the next day.
At the head of her class Miss Study was put,
While little Miss Play had to stay at the foot!
Thus little Miss Study and little Miss Play
Went onward through life—in an opposite way.

—Copyright by _Forbes & Co._, Chicago, and used by kind permission of author and publisher.

A SIMILAR CASE

ANONYMOUS

Jack, I hear you’ve gone and done it,—
Yes, I know; most fellows will;
Went and tried it once myself, sir,
Though you see I’m single still.
And you met her—did you tell me—
Down at Newport, last July,
And resolved to ask the question
At a soiree?—So did I.

I suppose you left the ball-room,
With its music and its light;
For they say Love’s flame is brightest
In the darkness of the night.
Well, you walked along together,
Overhead, the starlit sky;
And I’ll bet—old man, confess it—
You were frightened.—So was I.

So you strolled along the terrace,
Saw the summer moonlight pour,
All its radiance on the waters,
As they rippled on the shore,
Till at length you gathered courage,
When you saw that none was nigh—
Did you draw her close and tell her,
That you loved her?—So did I.

Well, I needn’t ask you further,
And I’m sure I wish you joy,
Think I’ll wander down and see you
When you’re married,—eh, my boy?
When the honeymoon is over
And you’re settled down, we’ll try—
What? The deuce you say! Rejected?
You rejected?—So was I.

IRISH CASTLES

BY FITZ-JAMES O’BRIEN

“Sweet Norah, come here, and look into the fire;
Maybe in its embers good luck we might see;
But don’t come too near, or your glances so shining,
Will put it clean out, like the sunbeams, machree!

“Just look ’twixt the sods, where so brightly they’re burning,
There’s a sweet little valley, with rivers and trees,
And a house on the bank, quite as big as the squire’s—
Who knows but some day we’ll have something like these?

“And now there’s a coach and four galloping horses,
A coachman to drive, and a footman behind;
That betokens some day we will keep a fine carriage,
And dash through the streets with the speed of the wind.”

As Dermot was speaking, the rain down the chimney,
Soon quenched the turf-fire on the hollowed hearth-stone:
While mansion and carriage, in smoke-wreaths evanished,
And left the poor dreamer dejected and lone.

Then Norah to Dermot, these words softly whispered:
“’Tis better to strive than to vainly desire:
And our little hut by the roadside is better
Than palace, and servants, and coach—in the fire!”

’Tis years since poor Dermot his fortune was dreaming—
Since Norah’s sweet counsel effected its cure;
For, ever since then hath he toiled night and morning,
And now his snug mansion looks down on the Suir.

THE DEACON’S DRIVE

BY FRED EMERSON BROOKS

Good Deacon Jones, although a pious man,
Was not constructed on the meager plan;
And he so loved the Sabbath day of rest,
Of all the seven deemed it far the best;
Could he have made the year’s allotment o’er,
He would have put in many rest-days more.
One Sunday morn, on sacred matters bent,
With his good wife, to church the deacon went.
And since there was no fear of being late,
The horse slow jogged along his Sunday gait.
This horse he got by trading with a Jew,
And called him Moses,—nothing else would do.
He’d been a race-horse in his palmy days,
But now had settled down, to pious ways,—
Save now and then backsliding from his creed,
When overtempted to a burst of speed.

’Twas early, and the deacon’s wife was driving,
While from the book the deacon hard was striving
On sacred things to concentrate his mind—
The sound of clattering hoofs is heard behind;
Old Mose pricked up his ears and sniffed the air;
The deacon mused: “Some racers, I declare!
Fast horse, fast man, fast speeds the life away,
While sluggish blood is slow to disobey!”
He closed the book; he’d read enough of psalms—
And, looking backward, spat upon his palms,
Then grabbed the sagging reins: “Land sakes alive!
It’s late, Jerushee, guess I’d better drive!”

The wife suspects there’s something on his mind;
Adjusts her spectacles and looks behind:
“Pull out, good Silas, let that sinner past
Who breaks the Sabbath day by drivin’ fast!
What pretty horses; he’s some city chap;
My, how he drives; he’ll meet with some mishap!
Be quick thar, Silas; further to the side;
He’s comin’; thank the Lord the road is wide!
Jes’ look at Mose; if he ain’t in fer war!
Say, Silas, what on earth you bracin’ for?
Old man, have you forgot what day it is?”
“Git up thar, Mose! Jerushee, mind yer biz!”
“Upon my soul, look how that nag’s a-pacin’;
Why, Silas, dear, I do believe you’re racin’!
Land sakes alive, what will the people say?
Good Deacon Jones a-racin’, Sabbath day!”

“Jerushee, now you hold yer pious tongue,
And save yer voice until the hymns are sung!
‘Make haste unto the Lord;’ that’s the command;
We’re bound fer church—I trust you understand!”
“But goin’ to church, good Silas, racin’ so,
Will bring us into heaven mighty slow!”
“Hush up, Jerushee, else you’ll make us late;
Gelong thar, Moses—strike yer winnin’ gait!
God gave him speed and now’s his time to show it;
If that’s a sin, I never want to know it.”

A loving wife to acquiescence used,
Jerusha soon begins to get enthused.
Said she: “Don’t leave the church folk disappointed,
Nor let the ungodly beat the Lord’s anointed!”
“You’re right, Jerushee, thar yer head is level,
In life’s long race the saint must beat the devil;
Though on this Hebrew horse depend we must
To keep the Christian from the sinner’s dust.
That’s right, Jerushee, give old Mose the birch,
Fer here’s a race: The world ag’in’ the church;
Both Testaments are at it fer their lives—
The Old one pacin’ while the New one drives;
And Satan’s found at last all he can do
To tackle both the Gentile and the Jew.”

The stranger’s horses come at such a pace
They dash ahead as if to take the race.
“The jig is up, Jerushee; guess he’ll beat;
He’s in the lead, and Mose is off his feet.”
“What talk is that? Now, Silas, don’t you scoff;
How can he jig if all his feet are off?
And now you say he’s struck his gait at last,
I feared he’d strike on suthin’, goin’ so fast.”
The stranger cries: “Come on, old Sanctimony,
Old wife, old wagon, and old rack-a-bony!”
Jerusha’s dander’s up; Jerusha’s mad;
She grabs her bonnet and applies the gad.
And Mose at last has struck his old-time speed;
For once the Jew and Gentile are agreed.

Around the church the gathered country folk
Observe: “The Sabbath day is bein’ broke.”
With eager eye and half-averted face,
Though some condemn, yet all observe the race.
“Land sakes!” cries one, “I’ll bet ye ten t’ tew
It’s Deacon Jones a-drivin’ that ar Jew.”
“I can’t bet much, but here’s my life upon it—
That thar’s Jerushee—I know her by the bonnet!”
Along the dusty road the horses speed,
And inch by inch old Moses takes the lead.
Jerusha gets excited, now she’s winning,
And all her former anger dies a-grinning.
“Come on, old Disbelief, old Satan’s crony,
Don’t lag behind on any ceremony!
Take my advice: Before you give much sass
Jes’ turn yer horses out on Sunday grass.”

Old Mose had forged ahead at such a rate
The Deacon couldn’t stop him at the gate;
The more he pulled the faster Mose would go;
Jerusha grabbed one line and hollered: “Whoa!”
Which swung him in; the buggy with a crash,
Swinging against the horse-block, went to smash.
The pastor said: “I hope you broke no bones,
Although you broke the Sabbath, Deacon Jones.”
“Don’t blame this onto Sile,” Jerusha said:
“But on that hoss; you know he’s Jewish bred,
An’ won’t do nothin’ Saturday but rest;
On Sunday he breaks loose like all possessed.
At least we’re here and safe, therefore rejoice,
But I shall sing no more, I’ve strained my voice!”
“I thought ’twould break,” they heard the pastor say,
“It has been cracked for many, many a day.”

—Copyright by _Forbes & Co._, Chicago, and used by kind permission of author and publisher.

THE CHRISTMAS RING

BY FRED EMERSON BROOKS

May was pretty, plump and pretty, and with such a lovely soul
That a smile lit up her features like a mental aureole.
People gazed in admiration—always listened—when she talked
Always made you think of roses, but she limped whene’er she walked.
Nothing crippled, nothing shriveled, nothing of the withered sort;
Just a perfect human being, save one leg a trifle short;
As though nature had intended her the rarest of her kind
But fell short of precious matter and no substitute could find.
Fair as polished alabaster that had wakened from its dream;
But so modest and retiring she held every one’s esteem.
Though her imperfection grieved her more than anybody knew,
Yet her life was like the heavens when the stars are peeping through.
At first sight of her you’d fancy as you blinked your startled eyes
You had chanced upon a seraph who had taken human guise:
As a man will gaze in wonder at a jewel on the ground
Ere he quite believes his senses that a treasure had been found.
Enter handsome, kindly David: comes a stranger to the place,
Searching for the soul of beauty hid behind a maiden face;
Not among the belles of fashion, not among the aimless kind,
Could he find the perfect woman he had pictured in his mind.
Thought to find a truer sweetheart in some pretty village lass;
Find his lily of the valley in the higher middle class;
Out among the quiet people where his riches were unknown,
Some fair maid whose homely virtues would appreciate his own.
It was at a social function where he met the charming May
And her sister, Belle, the elder, quite as handsome in her way.
May was sunny, sweet and gentle—Belle was haughty and austere;
While ambition strode beside her just a little bit too near.
As a gentleman of leisure, David played the friendly rôle,
As contented as a youngster when he’s at a sugar-bowl.
David laid no special favor upon either Belle or May,
But he whispered things to Cupid—told him all he had to say.
Yet he played the gallant nobly, exercising all his art:
Hid behind the cunning Cupid he deployed to hide his heart.
May grew ever more unselfish, giving way to Sister Belle,
Till Dan Cupid felt like starting in a raucous college yell.
Belle had been the child of favor—May the daughter of regret;
One the Mount of Delectation, one the Mount of Olivet.
That a man preferred her sister was to Belle almost absurd:
She took everything for granted—simply waiting David’s word.
Custom bids one ask the parents—though he heed not what they say—
If a lover love a lover love will get her anyway.
So when David sought permission he was just a bit obscure—
Which was laid to nervous tension such as lovers must endure.
May I win your noblest daughter? Both fond parents gave consent;
Thinking Belle the one intended—straight to her the father went.
Belle, too vain to hold the secret, poured it in the ears of May:
How the heart grows disappointed when a hope has gone astray.
As a graduate from college, David had excuse for staying,
But he gave the pair no inkling of the love-game he was playing.
Through the summer and the autumn David studied well his art:
Read up Cupid on devotion and the psychics of the heart.
At the Church on Christmas evening David played the Santa Claus:
Telling stories to the children; gaining laughter and applause;
Handed out the many presents till the tree was stripped and bare;
Gave to Belle a jewel-sunburst which she fastened in her hair.
With no special gift from David, May was getting trouble-hearted,
But by dint of constant smiling kept the tears from getting started.
In the midst of the excitement David cast off his disguise;
Gave a rousing speech of greeting, closing up with this surprise:
“Friends, I have an extra present, ’tis the last one on the tree,
For the Queen of Love and Beauty, choice of all the world to me:
One with that angelic nature, Heaven only can bestow;
But with just enough of human to detain her here below.
I have read her secret often as the star man reads the skies,
Till the horoscope got tangled in the flashlight of her eyes.
With a love beyond endurance and a wealth beyond control,
I have come to claim my sweetheart with the treasures of my soul.
As a symbol of devotion I have brought this solitaire—
For my heart is in the girdle and her name is graven there.”
All are thrilled with expectation; every neck is craned to see
Who possesses all these virtues; whom the wonder maid can be.
Down the aisle our David hastened—passing Belle upon the way,
Till he paused to place the jewel on the pretty hand of May.
With her bosom over-flowing, May could utter not a word,
But her eyes and lips gave answer in the silence David heard.
And the tear that sorrow started changing quick to love’s employ,
Trembled on her heavy lashes like a messenger of joy.
While her cheek has turned to crimson, down the drop of rapture goes,
Stopping there awhile to glisten like a dewdrop on a rose.
Can you measure love’s emotion when a sorrow turns to bliss,
When a maid whose heart is broken has it mended with a kiss?
It is said the first known lovers—and I think they do it yet,
As first aid in pressing cases, used their arms as tourniquet.
David kissed her there in public, and he hugged her all he could;
May had half-way hoped he wouldn’t, then she half-way hoped he would.
Though they broke a social custom, none was there to make ado,
And the pastor’s benediction, _just for once, was just for two_.

—Copyright by author and used by his kind permission.

CUPID SWALLOWED

BY LEIGH HUNT

T’other day, as I was twining
Roses for a crown to dine in,
What, of all things, midst the heap,
Should I light on, fast asleep,
But the little desperate elf,—
The tiny traitor,—Love himself!
By the wings I pinched him up
Like a bee, and in a cup
Of my wine I plunged and sank him,
And d’ye think I did?—I drank him!
Faith, I thought him dead. Not he!
There he lives with ten-fold glee;
And now this moment, with his wings,
I feel him tickling my heart-strings.

THE VINEGAR MAN

BY RUTH COMFORT MITCHELL

The crazy old Vinegar Man is dead! He never had missed a day before!
Somebody went to his tumble-down shed, by the Haunted House, and forced
the door.
There in the litter of his pungent pans, the murky mess of his mixing
place,—
Deep, sticky spiders and empty cans—with the same old frown on his sour
old face.

“Vinegar-Vinegar-Vinegar Man!
Face-us-and-chase-us-and-catch-if-you-can!
Pepper for a tongue! Pickle for a nose!
Stick a pin in him and vinegar flows!
Glare-at-us-swear-at-us-catch-if-you-can!
Ketch-up-and-chow-chow-and-Vinegar-Man!”

Nothing but recipes and worthless junk; greasy old records of paid and
due;
But, down in the depths of a battered old trunk, a queer, quaint
valentine torn in two—
Red hearts and arrows, and silver lace, and a prim, dim, ladylike
script that said—
(Oh, Vinegar Man, with the sour old face!)—“With dearest love, from
Ellen to Ned!”

“Steal-us-and-peel-us-and-drown-us-in-brine!
He pickles his heart in”—a valentine!
“Vinegar for blood! Pepper for tongue!
Stick a pin in him and”—once he was young!
“Glare-at-us-swear-at-us-catch-if-you-can!”
“With dearest love”—to the Vinegar Man!

Dingy little books of profit and loss (died about Saturday, so they say)
And a queer, quaint valentine, torn across ... torn, but it never was
thrown away!
“With dearest love from Ellen to Ned”—“Old Pepper Tongue! Pickles his
heart in brine!”
The Vinegar Man is a long time dead: he died when he tore his valentine.

—Copyright by _The Century Co._, New York, and used by kind permission of author and publisher.

HIS FAVORITE

She was a dainty little maid,
And he was very tall;
They gathered all the flowers
That grew by the garden wall.

“My favorite is the rose,” said she,
“Do you prefer the pink?
Perhaps you’re fond of hollyhocks,
You’re just like them, I think.

“You’re rather stiff and very tall
And nod your head just so
For all the world like hollyhocks
When summer breezes blow.

“But won’t you tell me what
Your favorites are?
For if I only knew,”
(The words were soft and low),
“I’d try to raise a few.”

“My favorites,” he answered,
“This moment I can see.
I’m looking at your two lips,—
Will you raise tulips for me?”

THE MOURNFUL TALE OF THE SNEE ZEE FAMILEE

BY A. J. WATERHOUSE

There was a little yellow man whose name it was Ah Cheu,
And every time that Mongol sneezed he told his name to you.
This funny little yellow man had wedded Tish Ah Chee,
And they, when certain time had passed, had children one, two, three.
There was little Ah Cheu
And Tish Ah Tsu,
And the baby was named Ker Chee,
And their Uncle Ker Chawl
And his wife were all
Of the Snee Zee fam-i-lee,
And when the mamma stood and called her children from the door,
You would laugh and laugh for an hour and a half if never you laughed
before.
“Ah Cheu,” she’d say in her feminine way, “bring in little Ker Chee,
And Tish Ah Tsu, bring him in, too, to the Snee Zee fam-i-lee.”

Alas and alack! but my voice will crack as the mournful tale I tell.
To that sweet little band in the Mongol land a terrible fate befell.
On a summer day in a sportive way they called one another all,
And over and o’er the names they bore they would call and call and call.
They called Ah Cheu
And Tish Ah Tsu
And the baby Ker Chee, Ker Chee,
And their Uncle Ker Chawl,
They called them all,
Till they’re dead as dead can be.
Ah Cheu was tough, and was used to snuff, so he lived at his fate to
scoff,
But the rest are dead, as I’ve heretofore said, for their heads they
were all sneezed off.
And this is the tale I have tried to wail of Ah Cheu and his little
Ker Chee
And Tish Ah Tsu and Ah Chee, too, of the Snee Zee fam-i-lee.

—From “Lays for Little Chaps.”

TO A USURPER

BY EUGENE FIELD

Aha! a traitor in the camp,
A rebel strangely bold,—
A lisping, laughing, toddling scamp,
Not more than four years old!

To think that I, who’ve ruled alone
So proudly in the past,
Should be ejected from my throne
By my own son at last!

He trots his treason to and fro,
As only babies can,
And says he’ll be his mamma’s beau
When he’s a “Gweat, big man!”

You stingy boy! you’ve always had
A share in mamma’s heart;
Would you begrudge your poor old dad
The tiniest little part?

That mamma, I regret to see,
Inclines to take your part,—
As if a dual monarchy
Should rule her gentle heart!

But when the years of youth have sped,
The bearded man, I trow,
Will quite forget he ever said
He’d be his mamma’s beau.

Renounce your treason, little son,
Leave mamma’s heart to me;
For there will come another one
To claim your loyalty.

And when that other comes to you,
God grant her love may shine
Through all your life, as fair and true
As mamma’s does through mine!

MY RIVAL

BY RUDYARD KIPLING

I go to concert, party, ball—
What profit is in these?
I sit alone against the wall
And strive to look at ease.
The incense that is mine by right
They burn before her shrine;
And that’s because I’m seventeen
And she is forty-nine.

I cannot check my girlish blush,
My color comes and goes;
I redden to my finger-tips,
And sometimes to my nose.
And she is white where white should be,
And red where red should shine.
The blush that flies at seventeen
Is fixed at forty-nine.

I wish _I_ had her constant cheek:
I wish that I could sing
All sorts of funny little songs,
Not quite the proper thing.
I’m very gauche and very shy,
Her jokes aren’t in my line;
And worst of all, I’m seventeen
While she is forty-nine.

The young men come, the young men go,
Each pink and white and neat,
She’s older than their mothers, but
They grovel at her feet.
They walk beside her rickshaw wheels—
None ever walk by mine;
And that’s because I’m seventeen
And she is forty-nine.

She rides with half a dozen men,
(She calls them “boys” and “mashers”)
I trot along the Mall alone;
My prettiest frocks and sashes
Don’t help to fill my programme-card,
And vainly I repine
From 10 to 2 A. M. Ah me!
Would I were forty-nine!

She calls me “darling,” “pet,” and “dear,”
And sweet “retiring maid.”
I’m always at the back, I know,
She puts me in the shade.
She introduces me to men,
“Cast” lovers I opine,
For sixty takes to seventeen,
Nineteen to forty-nine.

But even she must older grow,
And end her dancing days,
She can’t go on forever so
At concerts, balls and plays.
One ray of priceless hope I see
Before my footsteps shine;
Just think, that she’ll be eighty-one
When I am forty-nine.

LUCKY JIM

BY FRED EMERSON BROOKS

A FORGOTTEN STORY REWRITTEN FOR REINE DAVIES

Two jolly, boyish chums were we
For I loved Jim and Jim loved me,
We played together—went to school,
And learned the selfsame Golden Rule.
Jim kissed the girls and so did I;
But Jim got married on the sly.
The sweetest girl I ever knew
Her cheeks like roses wet with dew.
I kept my secret through the years
And tried to drown my love in tears.
Though oft I thought of suicide
The more I tried the less I died.