Grimm Tales Made Gay
Author: Guy Wetmore Carryl
Date: 1901-12-31T22:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Humorous poetry; Parody; Fairy Tales
Description: A comic rendering in verse of well-loved Fairy Tales of the Brothers Grimm, each full of puns and ending with a moral. Lavishly illustrated.
Publisher: MobileRead.com
Rights: Public Domain where copyright is "Life+90" or less, and in the USA

CONTENTS

… Cover
… Titlepage
… About this Ebook
… Carryl Copyright
… Dedication
GRIMM TALES MADE GAY

- How the Babes in the Wood Showed They Couldn’t Be Beaten

- How Fair Cinderella Disposed of Her Shoe
- How Little Red Riding Hood Came to be Eaten
- How the Fatuous Wish of a Peasant Came True
- How Hop O’ My Thumb Got Rid of an Onus

- How the Helpmate of Blue-Beard Made Free with a Door

- How Rumplestilz Held Out in Vain for a Bonus

- How Jack Made the Giants Uncommonly Sore

- How Rudeness and Kindness Were Justly Rewarded

- How Beauty Contrived to Get Square with the Beast

- How a Fair One No Hope to His Highness Accorded

- How Thomas a Maid from a Dragon Released

- How a Beauty Was Waked and Her Suitor was Suited

- How Jack Found that Beans May go Back on a Chap

- How a Cat Was Annoyed and a Poet Was Booted

- How Much Fortunatus Could Do with a Cap

- How a Princess Was Wooed from Habitual Sadness

- How a Girl was too Reckless of Grammar by Far

- How the Peaceful Aladdin Gave Way to His Madness

- How a Fisherman Corked up His Foe in a Jar

- Envoi

ABOUT THIS EBOOK

Grimm Tales Made Gay

BY
GUY WETMORE CARRYL
(1873-1904)

ILLUSTRATIONS BY:

ALBERT LEVERING
(1869–1929)

A comic rendering in verse of well-loved Fairy Tales of the Brothers Grimm, each full of puns and ending with a moral. Lavishly illustrated.

* * * *

Guy Wetmore Carryl (4 March 1873 – 1 April 1904) was an American humorist and poet. He worked for Munsey’s and Harper’s magazines, and contrbuted short stories, articles, and poetry to numerous other magazines as well. His best known works are the humorous poems that parody Aesop’s Fables, Mother Goose, and Grimm’s Fairy Tales.

This ebook was created by ECM for MobileRead.com, January 2021, and may be freely distributed for non-commercial purposes.

First published in 1902. This book is in the public domain in countries where copyright is “Life+90” or less, and in the USA.

GRIMM  TALES
MADE  GAY

HOW THE BABES IN THE WOOD
SHOWED THEY COULDN’T BE BEATEN

~   ~   ~

A man of kind and noble mind

Was H. Gustavus Hyde.

’Twould be amiss to add to this

At present, for he died,

In full possession of his senses,

The day before my tale commences.

One half his gold his four-year-old

Son Paul was known to win,

And Beatrix, whose age was six,

For all the rest came in,

Perceiving which, their Uncle Ben did

A thing that people said was splendid.

For by the hand he took them, and

Remarked in accents smooth:

“One thing I ask. Be mine the task

These stricken babes to soothe!

My country home is really charming:

I’ll teach them all the joys of farming.”

One halcyon week they fished his creek,

And watched him do the chores,

In haylofts hid, and, shouting, slid

Down sloping cellar doors:—

Because this life to bliss was equal

The more distressing is the sequel.

Concealing guile beneath a smile,

He took them to a wood,

And, with severe and most austere

Injunctions to be good,

He left them seated on a gateway,

And took his own departure straightway.

Though much afraid, the children stayed

From ten till nearly eight;

At times they wept, at times they slept,

But never left the gate:

Until the swift suspicion crossed them

That Uncle Benjamin had lost them.

Then, quite unnerved, young Paul observed:

“It’s like a dreadful dream,

And Uncle Ben has fallen ten

Per cent. in my esteem.

Not only did he first usurp us,

But now he’s left us here on purpose!”

*   *   *   *   *   *

For countless years their childish fears

Have made the reader pale,

For countless years the public’s tears

Have started at the tale,

For countless years much detestation

Has been expressed for their relation.

So draw a veil across the dale

Where stood that ghastly gate.

No need to tell. You know full well

What was their touching fate,

And how with leaves each little dead breast

Was covered by a Robin Redbreast!

But when they found them on the ground,

Although their life had ceased,

Quite near to Paul there lay a small

White paper, neatly creased.

“Because of lack of any merit,

B. Hyde,” it ran, “we disinherit!”

The Moral: If you deeply long

To punish one who’s done you wrong,

Though in your lifetime fail you may,

Where there’s a will, there is a way!

HOW FAIR CINDERELLA
DISPOSED OF HER SHOE

~   ~   ~

The vainest girls in forty states

Were Gwendolyn and Gladys Gates;

They warbled, slightly off the air,

Romantic German songs,

And each of them upon her hair

Employed the curling tongs,

And each with ardor most intense

Her buxom figure laced,

Until her wilful want of sense

Procured a woeful waist:

For bound to marry titled mates

Were Gwendolyn and Gladys Gates.

Yet, truth to tell, the swains were few

Of Gwendolyn (and Gladys, too).

So morning, afternoon, and night

Upon their sister they

Were wont to vent their selfish spite,

And in the rudest way:

For though her name was Leonore,

That’s neither there nor here,

They called her Cinderella, for

The kitchen was her sphere,

Save when the hair she had to do

Of Gwendolyn (and Gladys, too).

Each night to dances and to fêtes

Went Gwendolyn and Gladys Gates,

And Cinderella watched them go

In silks and satins clad:

A prince invited them, and so

They put on all they had!

But one fine night, as all alone

She watched the flames leap higher,

A small and stooping fairy crone

Stept nimbly from the fire.

Said she: “The pride upon me grates

Of Gwendolyn and Gladys Gates.”

“I’ll now,” she added, with a frown,

“Call Gwendolyn and Gladys down!”

And, ere your fingers you could snap,

There stood before the door

No paltry hired horse and trap,

Oh, no!—a coach and four!

And Cinderella, fitted out

Regardless of expense,

Made both her sisters look about

Like thirty-seven cents!

The prince, with one look at her gown,

Turned Gwendolyn and Gladys down!

Wall-flowers, when thus compared with her,

Both Gwendolyn and Gladys were.

The prince but gave them glances hard,

No gracious word he said;

He scratched their names from off his card,

And wrote hers down instead:

And where he would bestow his hand

He showed them in a trice

By handing her the kisses, and

To each of them an ice!

In sudden need of fire and fur

Both Gwendolyn and Gladys were.

At ten o’clock, in discontent,

Both Gwendolyn and Gladys went.

Their sister stayed till after two,

And, with a joy sincere,

The prince obtained her crystal shoe

By way of souvenir.

“Upon the bridal path,” he cried,

“We’ll reign together! Since

I love you, you must be my bride!”

(He was no slouch, that prince!)

And into sudden languishment

Both Gwendolyn and Gladys went.

The Moral: All the girls on earth

Exaggerate their proper worth.

They think the very shoes they wear

Are worth the average millionaire;

Whereas few pairs in any town

Can be half-sold for half a crown!

HOW LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD
CAME TO BE EATEN

~   ~   ~

Most worthy of praise

Were the virtuous ways

Of Little Red Riding Hood’s Ma,

And no one was ever

More cautious and clever

Than Little Red Riding Hood’s Pa.

They never misled,

For they meant what they said,

And would frequently say what they meant,

And the way she should go

They were careful to show,

And the way that they showed her, she went.

For obedience she was effusively thanked,

And for anything else she was carefully spanked.

It thus isn’t strange

That Red Riding Hood’s range

Of virtues so steadily grew,

That soon she won prizes

Of different sizes,

And golden encomiums, too!

As a general rule

She was head of her school,

And at six was so notably smart

That they gave her a cheque

For reciting “The Wreck

Of the Hesperus,” wholly by heart!

And you all will applaud her the more, I am sure,

When I add that this money she gave to the poor.

At eleven this lass

Had a Sunday-school class,

At twelve wrote a volume of verse,

At thirteen was yearning

For glory, and learning

To be a professional nurse.

To a glorious height

The young paragon might

Have grown, if not nipped in the bud,

But the following year

Struck her smiling career

With a dull and a sickening thud!

(I have shed a great tear at the thought of her pain,

And must copy my manuscript over again!)

Not dreaming of harm,

One day on her arm

A basket she hung. It was filled

With jellies, and ices,

And gruel, and spices,

And chicken-legs, carefully grilled,

And a savory stew,

And a novel or two

She’d persuaded a neighbor to loan,

And a hot-water can,

And a Japanese fan,

And a bottle of eau-de-cologne,

And the rest of the things that your family fill

Your room with, whenever you chance to be ill!

She expected to find

Her decrepit but kind

Old Grandmother waiting her call,

But the visage that met her

Completely upset her:

It wasn’t familiar at all!

With a whitening cheek

She started to speak,

But her peril she instantly saw:—

Her Grandma had fled,

And she’d tackled instead

Four merciless Paws and a Maw!

When the neighbors came running, the wolf to subdue,

He was licking his chops, (and Red Riding Hood’s, too!)

This shows the bad wolf that came out of the wood,

And proved by his actions to be robbin’ Hood.

At this terrible tale

Some readers will pale,

And others with horror grow dumb,

And yet it was better,

I fear, he should get her:

Just think what she might have become!

For an infant so keen

Might in future have been

A woman of awful renown,

Who carried on fights

For her feminine rights

As the Mare of an Arkansas town.

She might have continued the crime of her ’teens,

And come to write verse for the Big Magazines!

The Moral: There’s nothing much glummer

Than children whose talents appall:

One much prefers those who are dumber,

But as for the paragons small,

If a swallow cannot make a summer

It can bring on a summary fall!

HOW THE FATUOUS WISH
OF A PEASANT CAME TRUE

~   ~   ~

An excellent peasant,

Of character pleasant,

Once lived in a hut with his wife.

He was cheerful and docile,

But such an old fossil

You wouldn’t meet twice in your life.

His notions were all without reason or rhyme,

Such dullness in any one else were a crime,

But the folly pig-headed

To which he was wedded

Was so deep imbedded,
it touched the sublime!

He frequently stated

Such quite antiquated

And singular doctrines as these:

“Do good unto others!

All men are your brothers!”

(Of course he forgot the Chinese!)

He said that all men were made equal and free,

(That’s true if they’re born on our side of the sea!)

That truth should be spoken,

And pledges unbroken:

(Now where, by that token,
would most of us be?)

One day, as his pottage

He ate in his cottage,

A fairy stepped up to the door;

Upon it she hammered,

And meekly she stammered:

“A morsel of food I implore.”

He gave her sardines, and a biscuit or two,

And she said in reply, when her luncheon was through,

“In return for these dishes

Of bread and of fishes

The first of your wishes

I’ll make to come true!”

That nincompoop peasant

Accepted the present,

(As most of us probably would,)

And, thinking her bounty

To turn to account, he

Said: “Now I’ll do somebody good!

I won’t ask a thing for myself or my wife,

But I’ll make all my neighbors with happiness rife.

Whate’er their conditions,

Henceforward, physicians

And indispositions
they’re rid of for life!”

These words energetic

The fairy’s prophetic

Announcement brought instantly true:

With singular quickness

Each victim of sickness

Was made over, better than new,

And people who formerly thought they were doomed

With almost obstreperous healthiness bloomed,

And each had some platitude,

Teeming with gratitude,

For the new attitude
life had assumed.

Our friend’s satisfaction

Concerning his action

Was keen, but exceedingly brief.

The wrathful condition

Of every physician

In town was surpassing belief!

Professional nurses were plunged in despair,

And chemists shook passionate fists in the air:

They called at his dwelling,

With violence swelling,

His greeting repelling
with arrogant stare.

They beat and they battered,

They slammed and they shattered,

And did him such serious harm,

That, after their labors,

His wife told the neighbors

They’d caused her excessive alarm!

They then set to work on his various ills,

And plied him with liniments, powders, and pills,

And charged him so dearly

That all of them nearly

Made double the yearly
amount of their bills.

This Moral by the tale is taught:—

The wish is father to the thought.

(We’d oftentimes escape the worst

If but the thinking part came first!)

HOW HOP O’ MY THUMB
GOT RID OF AN ONUS

~   ~   ~

A worthy couple, man and wife,

Dragged on a discontented life:

The reason, I should state,

That it was destitute of joys,

Was that they had a dozen boys

To feed and educate,

And nothing such patience demands

As having twelve boys on your hands!

For twenty years they tried their best

To keep those urchins neatly dressed

And teach them to be good,

But so much labor it involved

That, in the end, they both resolved

To lose them in a wood,

Though nothing a parent annoys

Like heartlessly losing his boys!

So when their sons had gone to bed,

Though bitter tears the couple shed,

They laid their little plan.

“Faut b’en que ça s’fasse. Quand même,”

The woman said, “J’en suis tout’ blème.”

“Ça colle!” observed the man,

“Mais ça coute, que ces gosses fichus!

B’en, quoi! Faut qu’i’s soient perdus!”

(I’ve quite omitted to explain

That they were natives of Touraine;

I see I must translate.)

“Of course it must be done, and still,”

The wife remarked, “it makes me ill.”

“You bet!” replied her mate:

“But we’ve both of us counted the cost,

And the kids simply have to be lost!”

But, while they plotted, every word

The youngest of the urchins heard,

And winked the other eye;

His height was only two feet three.

(I might remark, in passing, he

Was little, but O My!)

He added: “I’d better keep mum.”

(He was foxy, was Hop O’ My Thumb!)

They took the boys into the wood,

And lost them, as they said they should,

And came in silence back.

Alas for them! Hop O’ My Thumb

At every step had dropped a crumb,

And so retraced the track.

While the parents sat mourning their fate

He led the boys in at the gate!

He placed his hand upon his heart,

And said: “You think you’re awful smart,

But I have foiled you thus!”

His parents humbly bent the knee,

And meekly said: “H. O. M. T.,

You’re one too much for us!”

And both of them solemnly swore

“We won’t never do so no more!”

The Moral is: While I do not

Endeavor to condone the plot,

I still maintain that one

Should have no chance of being foiled,

And having one’s arrangements spoiled

By one’s ingenious son.

If you turn down your children, with pain,

Take care they don’t turn up again!

HOW THE HELPMATE OF BLUE-BEARD
MADE FREE WITH A DOOR

~   ~   ~

A maiden from the Bosphorus,

With eyes as bright as phosphorus,

Once wed the wealthy bailiff

Of the caliph

Of Kelat.

Though diligent and zealous, he

Became a slave to jealousy.

(Considering her beauty,

’Twas his duty

To be that!)

When business would necessitate

A journey, he would hesitate,

But, fearing to disgust her,

He would trust her

With his keys,

Remarking to her prayerfully:

“I beg you’ll use them carefully.

Don’t look what I deposit

In that closet,

If you please.”

It may be mentioned, casually,

That blue as lapis lazuli

He dyed his hair, his lashes,

His mustaches,

And his beard.

And, just because he did it, he

Aroused his wife’s timidity:

Her terror she dissembled,

But she trembled

When he neared.

This shows how grim Blue-Beard, when bound on a bat,

Instructed his wife on the key of a flat!

This feeling insalubrious

Soon made her most lugubrious,

And bitterly she missed her

Elder sister

Marie Anne:

She asked if she might write her to

Come down and spend a night or two,

Her husband answered rightly

And politely:

“Yes, you can!”

Blue-Beard, the Monday following,

His jealous feeling swallowing,

Packed all his clothes together

In a leather-

Bound valise,

And, feigning reprehensibly,

He started out, ostensibly

By traveling to learn a

Bit of Smyrna

And of Greece.

His wife made but a cursory

Inspection of the nursery;

The kitchen and the airy

Little dairy

Were a bore,

As well as big or scanty rooms,

And billiard, bath, and ante-rooms,

But not that interdicted

And restricted

Little door!

For, all her curiosity

Awakened by the closet he

So carefully had hidden,

And forbidden

Her to see,

This damsel disobedient

Did something inexpedient,

And in the keyhole tiny

Turned the shiny

Little key:

Then started back impulsively,

And shrieked aloud convulsively—

Three heads of girls he’d wedded

And beheaded

Met her eye!

And turning round, much terrified,

Her darkest fears were verified,

For Blue-Beard stood behind her,

Come to find her

On the sly!

Perceiving she was fated to

Be soon decapitated, too,

She telegraphed her brothers

And some others

What she feared.

And Sister Anne looked out for them,

In readiness to shout for them

Whenever in the distance

With assistance

They appeared.

But only from her battlement

She saw some dust that cattle meant.

The ordinary story

Isn’t gory,

But a jest.

But here’s the truth unqualified.

The husband wasn’t mollified

Her head is in his bloody

Little study

With the rest!

This shows the sword that Blue-Beard used full sore,

After he’d led his young wife to a-door.

The Moral: Wives, we must allow,

Who to their husbands will not bow,

A stern and dreadful lesson learn

When, as you’ve read, they’re cut in turn.

HOW RUMPLESTILZ HELD OUT
IN VAIN FOR A BONUS

~   ~   ~

In Germany there lived an earl

Who had a charming niece:

And never gave the timid girl

A single moment’s peace!

Whatever low and menial task

His fancy flitted through,

He did not hesitate to ask

That shrinking child to do.

(I see with truly honest shame you

Are blushing, and I do not blame you.

A tale like this the feelings softens,

And brings the tears, as does “Two Orphans.”)

She had to wash the windows, and

She had to scrub the floors,

She had to lend a willing hand

To fifty other chores:

She gave the dog his exercise,

She read the earl the news,

She ironed all his evening ties,

And polished all his shoes,

She cleaned the tins that filled the dairy,

She cut the claws of the canary,

And then, at night, with manner winsome,

When coal was wanted, carried in some!

But though these tasks were quite enough,

He thought them all too few,

And so her uncle, rude and rough,

Invented something new.

He took her to a little room,

Her willingness to tax,

And pointed out a broken loom

And half a ton of flax,

Observing: “Spin six pairs of trousers!”

His haughty manner seemed to rouse hers.

She met his scornful glances proudly—

And for an answer whistled loudly!

But when the earl went down the stair

She yielded to her fears.

Gave way at last to grim despair,

And melted into tears:

When suddenly, from out the wall,

As if he felt at home,

There pounced a singularly small

And much distorted gnome.

He smiled a smile extremely vapid,

And set to work in fashion rapid;

No time for resting he deducted,

And soon the trousers were constructed.

The girl observed: “How very nice

To help me out this way!”

The gnome replied: “A certain price

Of course you’ll have to pay.

I’ll call to-morrow afternoon,

My due reward to claim,

And then you’ll sing another tune

Unless you guess my name!”

He indicated with a gesture

The pile of newly fashioned vesture:

His eyes on hers a moment centered,

And then he went, as he had entered.

As by this tale you have been grieved

And heartily distressed,

Kind sir, you will be much relieved

To know his name she guessed:

But if I do not tell the same,

Pray count it not a crime:—

I’ve tried my best, and for that name

I can’t find any rhyme!

Yet spare me from remarks injurious:

I will not leave you foiled and furious.

If something must proclaim the answer,

And I cannot, the title can, sir!

The Moral is: All said and done,

There’s nothing new beneath the sun,

And many times before, a title

Was incapacity’s requital!

HOW JACK MADE THE GIANTS
UNCOMMONLY SORE

~   ~   ~

Of all the ill-fated

Boys ever created

Young Jack was the wretchedest lad:

An emphatic, erratic,

Dogmatic fanatic

Was foisted upon him as dad!

From the time he could walk,

And before he could talk,

His wearisome training began,

On a highly barbarian,

Disciplinarian,

Nearly Tartarean

Plan!

He taught him some Raleigh,

And some of Macaulay,

Till all of “Horatius” he knew,

And the drastic, sarcastic,

Fantastic, scholastic

Philippics of “Junius,” too.

He made him learn lots

Of the poems of Watts,

And frequently said he ignored,

On principle, any son’s

Title to benisons

Till he’d learned Tennyson’s

“Maud.”

“For these are the giants

Of thought and of science,”

He said in his positive way:

“So weigh them, obey them,

Display them, and lay them

To heart in your infancy’s day!”

Jack made no reply,

But he said on the sly

An eloquent word, that had come

From a quite indefensible,

Most reprehensible,

But indispensable

Chum.

By the time he was twenty

Jack had such a plenty

Of books and paternal advice,

Though seedy and needy,

Indeed he was greedy

For vengeance, whatever the price!

In the editor’s seat

Of a critical sheet

He found the revenge that he sought;

And, with sterling appliance of

Mind, wrote defiance of

All of the giants of

Thought.

He’d thunder and grumble

At high and at humble

Until he became, in a while,

Mordacious, pugnacious,

Rapacious. Good gracious!

They called him the Yankee Carlyle!

But he never took rest

On his quarrelsome quest

Of the giants, both mighty and small.

He slated, distorted them,

Hanged them and quartered them,

Till he had slaughtered them

All.

And this is The Moral that lies in the verse:

If you have a go farther, you’re apt to fare worse.

(When you turn it around it is different rather:—

You’re not apt to go worse if you have a fair father!)

HOW RUDENESS AND KINDNESS
WERE JUSTLY REWARDED

~   ~   ~

Once on a time, long years ago

(Just when I quite forget),

Two maidens lived beside the Po,

One blonde and one brunette.

The blonde one’s character was mild,

From morning until night she smiled,

Whereas the one whose hair was brown

Did little else than pine and frown.

(I think one ought to draw the line

At girls who always frown and pine!)

The blonde one learned to play the harp,

Like all accomplished dames,

And trained her voice to take C sharp

As well as Emma Eames;

Made baskets out of scented grass,

And paper-weights of hammered brass,

And lots of other odds and ends

For gentleman and lady friends.

(I think it takes a deal of sense

To manufacture gifts for gents!)

The dark one wore an air of gloom,

Proclaimed the world a bore,

And took her breakfast in her room

Three mornings out of four.

With crankiness she seemed imbued,

And everything she said was rude:

She sniffed, and sneered, and, what is more,

When very much provoked, she swore!

(I think that I could never care

For any girl who’d learned to swear!)

One day the blonde was striding past

A forest, all alone,

When all at once her eyes she cast

Upon a wrinkled crone,

Who tottered near with shaking knees,

And said: “A penny, if you please!”

And you will learn with some surprise

This was a fairy in disguise!

(I think it must be hard to know

A fairy who’s incognito!)

The maiden filled her trembling palms

With coinage of the realm.

The fairy said: “Take back your alms!

My heart they overwhelm.

Henceforth at every word shall slip

A pearl or ruby from your lip!”

And, when the girl got home that night,—

She found the fairy’s words were right!

(I think there are not many girls

Whose words are worth their weight in pearls!)

It happened that the cross brunette,

Ten minutes later, came

Along the self-same road, and met

That bent and wrinkled dame,

Who asked her humbly for a sou.

The girl replied: “Get out with you!”

The fairy cried: “Each word you drop,

A toad from out your mouth shall hop!”

(I think that nothing incommodes

One’s speech like uninvited toads!)

And so it was, the cheerful blonde

Lived on in joy and bliss,

And grew pecunious, beyond

The dreams of avarice!

And to a nice young man was wed,

And I have often heard it said

No other man who ever walked

Most loved his wife when most she talked!

(I think this very fact, forsooth,

Goes far to prove I tell the truth!)

The cross brunette the fairy’s joke

By hook or crook survived,

But still at every word she spoke

An ugly toad arrived,

Until at last she had to come

To feigning she was wholly dumb,

Whereat the suitors swarmed around,

And soon a wealthy mate she found.

(I think nobody ever knew

The happier husband of the two!)

The Moral of the tale is: Bah!

Nous avons changé tout celà.

No clear idea I hope to strike

Of what your nicest girl is like,

But she whose best young man I am

Is not an oyster, nor a clam!

This shows why each suitor, who rode up to spark,

Would mark the toad maybe, but ne’er toed the mark.

HOW BEAUTY CONTRIVED
TO GET SQUARE WITH THE BEAST

~   ~   ~

Miss Guinevere Platt

Was so beautiful that

She couldn’t remember the day

When one of her swains

Hadn’t taken the pains

To send her a mammoth bouquet.

And the postman had found,

On the whole of his round,

That no one received such a lot

Of bulky epistles

As, waiting his whistles,

The beautiful Guinevere got!

A significant sign

That her charm was divine

Was seen in society, when

The chaperons sniffed

With their eyebrows alift:

“Whatever’s got into the men?”

There was always a man

Who was holding her fan,

And twenty that danced in details,

And a couple of mourners,

Who brooded in corners,

And gnawed their mustaches and nails.

John Jeremy Platt

Wouldn’t stay in the flat,

For his beautiful daughter he missed:

When he’d taken his tub,

He would hie to his club,

And dally with poker or whist.

At the end of a year

It was perfectly clear

That he’d never computed the cost,

For he hadn’t a penny

To settle the many

Ten thousands of dollars he’d lost!

F. Ferdinand Fife

Was a student of life:

He was coarse, and excessively fat,

With a beard like a goat’s,

But he held all the notes

Of ruined John Jeremy Platt!

With an adamant smile

That was brimming with guile,

He said: “I am took with the face

Of your beautiful daughter,

And wed me she ought ter,

To save you from utter disgrace!”

Miss Guinevere Platt

Didn’t hesitate at

Her duty’s imperative call.

When they looked at the bride

All the chaperons cried:

“She isn’t so bad, after all!”

Of the desolate men

There were something like ten

Who took up political lives,

And the flower of the flock

Went and fell off a dock,

And the rest married hideous wives!

But the beautiful wife

Of F. Ferdinand Fife

Was the wildest that ever was known:

She’d grumble and glare,

Till the man didn’t dare

To say that his soul was his own.

She sneered at his ills,

And quadrupled his bills,

And spent nearly twice what he earned;

Her husband deserted,

And frivoled, and flirted,

Till Ferdinand’s reason was turned.

He repented too late,

And his terrible fate

Upon him so heavily sat,

That he swore at the day

When he sat down to play

At cards with John Jeremy Platt.

He was dead in a year,

And the fair Guinevere

In society sparkled again,

While the chaperons fluttered

Their fans, as they muttered:

“She’s getting exceedingly plain!”

The Moral: Predicaments often are found

That beautiful duty is apt to get round:

But greedy extortioners better beware

For dutiful beauty is apt to get square!

This shows how at poker one loses his pelf

When the other’s a joker and knave in himself.

HOW A FAIR ONE NO HOPE
TO HIS HIGHNESS ACCORDED

~   ~   ~

She has slid down the channels

Of history’s annals

Disguised as the child of a king,

But that is a glib

And iniquitous fib,

For she never was any such thing:

They called her the Fair One with Golden Locks,

And it’s true she had lovers who swarmed in flocks,

But the rest is ironic;

Her business chronic

Was selling hair-tonic

By bottle and box!

From the dawn till the gloaming

She used to sit combing

Her hair in a languorous way.

And her suitors would stop

To look into the shop,

And stand there the rest of the day.

She filled them with mute, but with deep despair,

For she never glanced up, with a smile, to where

They stood about, crushing

Each other, and blushing:

She simply kept brushing

Her beautiful hair.

But a prince who was passing,

Engaged in amassing

Some facts on American life,

Was suddenly struck

By the fact that his luck

Might give him that girl for a wife!

His rashness he didn’t attempt to excuse,

He entered the shop and he stated his views.

Remarking,

“My jewel,

I’m confident you will

Not wish to be cruel

Enough to refuse.

“Most winsome of creatures,”

He told her, “your features

Have led me to candidly say

That no other beside

Would I have for a bride:

We’ll be married a week from to-day!

I belong to a long and a titled line,

And the least of your wishes I won’t decline;

Next month I will usher

My wife into Russia:—

Sweet comber and brusher,

Consider you’re mine!”

She looked at him squarely,

Considered him fairly,

Her glance was as keen as a knife,

Then she turned up her nose,

And, with icy repose,

She answered: “Well, not on your life!

You’re not on the paper the only blot!

Do you think I come twelve in a parcel—what?

Me pose as your dearie?

Oh, go and chase Peary!

You’re making me weary.

Now git!”

(He got!)

This shows how, with never a shadow of doubt,

When you go in for love you are apt to come out.

The crowd that had waited

Outside was elated

So much by the prince’s mischance,

That they greeted with jeers

And ironical cheers,

The end of his little romance.

They said: “Did it hurt when the ground you hit?”

They searched for some mark where the prince had lit,

And as he looked colder,

They only grew bolder,

And tapped on his shoulder

With: “Tag! You’re It!”

The lengthy discussion

That sensitive Russian

Compiled on the U. S. A.

Was read by the maid,

As she carelessly played

With her beautiful hair one day.

“The talk you hear in that primitive land,”

He wrote, “nobody can understand.”

“Somebody who guffed him,”

She said, “has stuffed him,

And easily bluffed him

To beat the band!”

The Moral: The people across the brine

Are exceedingly strong on Auld Lang Syne,

But they’re lost in the push when they strike a gang

That is strong on American new line slang!

HOW THOMAS A MAID
FROM A DRAGON RELEASED

~   ~   ~

Though Philip the Second

Of France was reckoned

No coward, his breath came short

When they told him a dragon

As big as a wagon

Was waiting below in the court!

A dragon so long, and so wide, and so fat,

That he couldn’t get in at the door to chat:

The king couldn’t leave him

Outside and grieve him,

He had to receive him

Upon the mat,

The dragon bowed nicely,

And very concisely

He stated the reason he’d called:

He made the disclosure

With frigid composure.

King Philip was simply appalled!

He demanded for eating, a fortnight apart,

The monarch’s ten daughters, all dear to his heart.

“And now you’ll produce,” he

Concluded, “the juicy

And succulent Lucie

By way of start!”

King Philip was pliant,

And far from defiant

—“And servile,” no doubt you retort!—

But if you struck a snag on

A bottle-green dragon,

Who filled up two-thirds of your court,

And curled up his tail on your new tin roof,

And made your piazza groan under his hoof,

Would you threaten and thunder,

Or just knuckle under

Completely, I wonder,

If put to proof?

By way of a truce, he

Brought out little Lucie

And watched her conducted away,

But all of the others

Were out with their brothers!

Thus gaining a little delay,

He promised through heralds sent west and east,

His crown, and his kingdom, and last, not least,

His daughter so sightly

To any one knightly

Who’d come and politely

Wipe out that beast!

For love of the charmer,

Arrayed in his armor,

Each suitor for glory who yearned,

Would gallantly hasten,

The dragon to chasten,

But none of them ever returned!

When the dragon had eaten some sixteen score

He hung up this sign on his cavern door,

Whereat he lay pronely

In majesty lonely:

There’s Standing Room Only

For Three Knights More!

A slim adolescent,

His beard only crescent,

Rode up at this stage of the game

To where the old sinner

Lay gorged with his dinner,

And breathing out torrents of flame.

He gathered a tip from the flaunting sign,

And took his position the fourth in line,

Until, as foreboded,

By food incommoded,

The dragon exploded

At half-past nine.

This shows how a servant may laugh at the Fates,

Since everything comes to the fellow who waits.

The king was delighted

At first when he sighted

The victor, but then in dismay

Regretted his promise.

The stripling was Thomas,

His Majesty’s valet-de-pied!

He asked him at once: “Will you compromise?”

But Thomas looked straight in his master’s eyes,

And answered severely:

“I see your game clearly,

And scorn it sincerely.

Hand out the prize!”

Not long did he linger

Before on the finger

Of Lucie he fitted a ring:

A month or two later

They made him dictator,

In place of the elderly king:

He was lauded by pulpit, and boomed by press,

And no one had ever a chance to guess,

Beholding this hero

Who ruled like a Nero,

His valor was zero,

Or something less.

The Moral: And still from Nice to Calais

Discretion’s the better part of—

—valets!

HOW A BEAUTY WAS WAKED
AND HER SUITOR WAS SUITED

~   ~   ~

Albeit wholly penniless,

Prince Charming wasn’t any less

Conceited than a Croesus or a modern millionaire:

Though often in necessity,

No one would ever guess it. He

Was candidly insolvent, and he frankly didn’t care!

Of the many debts he made

Not a one was ever paid,

But no one ever pressed him to refund the borrowed gold:

While he recklessly kept spending,

People gladly kept on lending,

For the fact they knew a title

Was requital

Twenty-fold!

(He lived in sixteen sixty-three,

This smooth unblushing article,

Since when, as far as I can see,

Men haven’t changed a particle!)

In Charming’s principality

There was a wild locality,

Composed of sombre forest, and of steep and frowning crags,

Of pheasant and of rabbit, too;

And here it was his habit to

Go hunting with his courtiers in the keen pursuit of stags.

But the charger that he rode

So mercurially strode

That the prince on one occasion left the others in the lurch,

And the falling darkness found him,

With no vassals left around him,

Near a building like an abbey,

Or a shabby

Ruined church.

His Highness said: “I’ll ring the bell

And stay till morning in it!” (He

Took Hobson’s choice, for no hotel

There was in the vicinity.)

His ringing was so vehement

That any one could see he meant

To suffer no refusal, but, in spite of all the din,

There was no answer audible,

And so, with courage laudable,

His Royal Highness turned the knob, and stoutly entered in.

Then he strode across the court,

But he suddenly stopped short

When he passed within the castle by a massive oaken door:

There were courtiers without number,

But they all were plunged in slumber,

The prince’s ear delighting

By uniting

In a snore.

The prince remarked: “This must be Philadelphia, Pennsylvania!”

(And so was born the jest that’s still

The comic journal’s mania!)

This shows how the prince won the princess’s heart,

And the end of her sleeping was simply a start.

With torpor reprehensible,

Numb, comatose, insensible,

The flunkeys and the chamberlains all slumbered like the dead,

And snored so loud and mournfully,

That Charming passed them scornfully

And came to where a princess lay asleep upon a bed.

She was so extremely fair

That His Highness didn’t care

For the risk, and so he kissed her ere a single word he spoke:—

In a jiffy maids and pages,

Ushers, lackeys, squires, and sages,

As fresh as if they’d been at least

A week awake,

Awoke,

And hastened, bustled, dashed and ran

Up stairways and through galleries:

In brief, they one and all began

Again to earn their salaries!

Aroused from her paralysis,

As if in deep analysis

Of him who had awakened her, the princess met his eye:

Her glance at first was critical,

And sternly analytical.

And then she dropped her lashes and she gave a little sigh.

As he watched her, wholly dumb,

She observed: “You doubtless come

For one of two good reasons, and I’m going to ask you which.

Do you mean my house to harry, Or do you propose to marry?”

He answered: “I may rue it,

But I’ll do it,

If you’re rich!”

The princess murmured with a smile:

“I’ve millions, at the least, to come!”

The prince cried: “Please excuse me, while

I go and get the priest to come!”

The Moral: When affairs go ill

The sleeping partner foots the bill.

HOW JACK FOUND THAT BEANS
MAY GO BACK ON A CHAP

~   ~   ~

Without the slightest basis

For hypochondriasis

A widow had forebodings which a cloud around her flung,

And with expression cynical

For half the day a clinical

Thermometer she held beneath her tongue.

Whene’er she read the papers

She suffered from the vapors,

At every tale of malady or accident she’d groan;

In every new and smart disease,

From housemaid’s knee to heart disease,

She recognized the symptoms as her own!

She had a yearning chronic

To try each novel tonic,

Elixir, panacea, lotion, opiate, and balm;

And from a homœopathist

Would change to an hydropathist,

And back again, with stupefying calm!

The closets of her villa

Were full of sarsaparilla,

Ammonia, digitalis, bronchial troches, soda mint.

Restoratives hirsutical,

And soaps to clean the cuticle,

And iodine, and peptonoids, and lint.

She was nervous, cataleptic,

And anemic, and dyspeptic:

Though not convinced of apoplexy, yet she had her fears.

She dwelt with force fanatical

Upon a twinge rheumatical,

And said she had a buzzing in her ears!

Now all of this bemoaning And this grumbling and this groaning

The mind of Jack, her son and heir, unconscionably bored.

His heart completely hardening, He gave his time to gardening,

For raising beans was something he adored.

Each hour in accents morbid

This limp maternal bore bid

Her callous son affectionate and lachrymose good-bys.

She never granted Jack a day

Without some long “Alackaday!”

Accompanied by rolling of the eyes.

But Jack, no panic showing,

Just watched his beanstalk growing,

And twined with tender fingers the tendrils up the pole.

At all her words funereal

He smiled a smile ethereal,

Or sighed an absent-minded “Bless my soul!”

That hollow-hearted creature

Would never change a feature:

No tear bedimmed his eye, however touching was her talk.

She never fussed or flurried him,

The only thing that worried him

Was when no bean-pods grew upon the stalk!

But then he wabbled loosely His head, and wept profusely,

And, taking out his handkerchief to mop away his tears,

Exclaimed: “It hasn’t got any!”

He found this blow to botany

Was sadder than were all his mother’s fears.

The Moral is that gardeners pine

Whene’er no pods adorn the vine.

Of all sad words experience gleans

The saddest are: “It might have beans.”

(I did not make this up myself:

’Twas in a book upon my shelf.

It’s witty, but I don’t deny

It’s rather Whittier than I!)

HOW A CAT WAS ANNOYED
AND A POET WAS BOOTED

~   ~   ~

A poet had a cat.

There is nothing odd in that—

(I might make a little pun about the Mews!)

But what is really more

Remarkable, she wore

A pair of pointed patent-leather shoes.

And I doubt me greatly whether

E’er you heard the like of that:

Pointed shoes of patent-leather

On a cat!

His time he used to pass

Writing sonnets, on the grass—

(I might say something good on pen and sward!)

While the cat sat near at hand,

Trying hard to understand

The poems he occasionally roared.

(I myself possess a feline,

But when poetry I roar

He is sure to make a bee-line

For the door.)

The poet, cent by cent,

All his patrimony spent—

(I might tell how he went from werse to werse!)

Till the cat was sure she could,

By advising, do him good

So addressed him in a manner that was terse:

“We are bound toward the scuppers,

And the time has come to act,

Or we’ll both be on our uppers

For a fact!”

On her boot she fixed her eye,

But the boot made no reply—

(I might say: “Couldn’t speak to save its sole!”)

And the foolish bard, instead

Of responding, only read

A verse that wasn’t bad upon the whole:

And it pleased the cat so greatly,

Though she knew not what it meant,

That I’ll quote approximately

How it went:—

“If I should live to be

The last leaf upon the tree”—

(I might put in: “I think I’d just as leaf!”)

“Let them smile, as I do now,

At the old forsaken bough”—

Well, he’d plagiarized it bodily, in brief!

But that cat of simple breeding

Couldn’t read the lines between,

So she took it to a leading

Magazine.

She was jarred and very sore

When they showed her to the door.

(I might hit off the door that was a jar!)

To the spot she swift returned

Where the poet sighed and yearned,

And she told him that he’d gone a little far.

“Your performance with this rhyme has

Made me absolutely sick,”

She remarked. “I think the time has

Come to kick!”

I could fill up half the page

With descriptions of her rage—

(I might say that she went a bit too fur!)

When he smiled and murmured: “Shoo!”

“There is one thing I can do!”

She answered with a wrathful kind of purr.

“You may shoo me, and it suit you,

But I feel my conscience bid

Me, as tit for tat, to boot you!”

(Which she did.)

The Moral of the plot

(Though I say it, as should not!)

Is: An editor is difficult to suit.

But again there’re other times

When the man who fashions rhymes

Is a rascal, and a bully one to boot!

HOW MUCH FORTUNATUS
COULD DO WITH A CAP

~   ~   ~

Fortunatus, a fisherman Dane,

Set out on a sudden for Spain,

Because, runs the story,

He’d met with a hoary

Mysterious sorcerer chap,

Who, trouble to save him,

Most thoughtfully gave him

A magical traveling cap.

I barely believe that the story is true,

But here’s what that cap was reported to do.

Suppose you were sitting at home,

And you wished to see Paris or Rome,

You’d pick up that bonnet,

You’d carefully don it,

The name of the city you’d call,

And the very next minute

By Jove, you were in it,

Without having started at all!

One moment you sauntered on upper Broadway,

And the next on the Corso or rue de la Paix!

This shows Fortunatus, a restlessness feeling,

Forsaking his fishing, and leaving his ceiling.

Why, it beat every journey of Cook’s,

Knocked spots out of Baedeker’s books!

He stepped from his doorway

Direct into Norway,

He hopped in a trice to Ceylon,

He saw Madagascar,

Went round by Alaska,

And called on a girl in Luzon:

If they said she’d be down in a moment or two,

He took, while he waited, a peek at Peru!

He could wake up at eight in Siam,

Take his tub, if he wanted, in Guam.

Eat breakfast in Kansas,

And lunch in Matanzas,

Go out for a walk in Brazil,

Take tea in Madeira,

Dine on the Riviera,

And smoke his cigar in Seville,

Go out to the theatre in Vladivostok,

And retire in New York at eleven o’clock!

Every tongue he could readily speak:

French, German, Italian, Greek,

Norwegian, Bulgarian,

Turkish, Bavarian,

Japanese, Hindustanee,

Russian and Mexican!

He was a lexicon,

Such as you seldom will see.

His knowledge linguistic gave Ollendorff fits,

And brought a hot flush to the face of Berlitz!

He would bow in an intimate way

To Menelik and to Loubet,

He was frequently beckoned,

By William the Second,

A word of advice to receive,

He talked with bravado

About the Mikado,

King Oscar, Oom Paul, the Khedive,

King Victor Emmanuel Second, the Shah,

King Edward the Seventh, Kwang Su, and the Czar!

But what did he get from it all?

His wife used to wait in the hall!

When this wandering mortal

Set foot on the portal,

She always appeared on the scene,

And, far from ideally,

Remarked: “Well, I really

Would like to know where you have been!”

Now what is the good of a wandering life,

If you have to tell all that you do to your wife?

She’d indulge in a copious cry,

She’d remark she’d undoubtedly die,

Or, like many another,

Go back to her mother,

And what would the world think of that?

She only grew pleasant,

When offered a present

Of gloves or a gown or a hat:

And more than his talisman saved him in fare

Fortunatus expended in putting things square!

And The Moral is easily said:

Like our hero, you’re certain to find,

When such a cap goes on a head,

Retribution will follow behind!

HOW A PRINCESS WAS WOOED
FROM HABITUAL SADNESS

~   ~   ~

In days of old the King of Saxe

Had singular opinions,

For with a weighty battle-axe

He brutalized his minions,

And, when he’d nothing to employ

His mind, he chose a village,

And with an air of savage joy

Delivered it to pillage.

But what aroused within his breast

A rage well-nigh primeval

Was, most of all, his daughter, dressed

In fashion mediæval:

The gowns that pleased this maiden’s eye

Were simple as Utopia,

And for a hat she had a high

Inverted cornucopia.

In all her life she’d never smiled,

Her sadness was abysmal:

The boisterous monarch found his child

Unutterably dismal.

He therefore said the prince who made

Her laughter from its shell come,

Besides in ducats being paid,

Might wed the girl, and welcome!

I ought to say, ere I forget,

She was uncommon comely—

(Who ever read a Grimm tale yet,

In which the girl was homely?)

And so the King’s announcement drew

Nine princes in a column.

But all in vain. The princess grew,

If anything, more solemn.

One read her “Innocents Abroad,”

The next wore clothes eccentric,

The third one swallowed half his sword,

As in the circus-tent trick.

Thus eight of them into her cool

Reserve but deeper shoved her:

There was but one authentic fool—

The prince who really loved her!

He’d alternate between the height

Of hope and deep abasement,

He caught distressing colds at night,

By watching ’neath her casement:

He did what I have done, I know,

And you, I do not doubt it,—

Instead of bottling up his woe,

He bored his friends about it!

In brooding on the ways of Fate

Long hours he daily wasted,

His food remained upon his plate,

’Twas scarcely touched or tasted:

He said the bitter things of love,

All lovers, save a few, say,

And learned by heart the verses of

Swinburne, and A. de Musset!

This attitude his wished-for bride

To silent laughter goaded,

Until he talked of suicide,

And then the girl exploded!

“You make me laugh, and so,” she said,

“I’ll marry you next season.”

(Not half the people who are wed

Have half so good a reason!)

The Moral: The deliberate clown

Can never beat love’s barriers down:

’Tis better to be like the owl,

Comic because so grave a fowl.

From him we well may take our cue—

By him be taught, to wit, to woo!

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

To 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!

This serves in the easiest way to explain

What is meant by taking an aim in vain.

One day as Miss Mackenzie with uncommon ardor 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

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!

HOW THE PEACEFUL ALADDIN
GAVE WAY TO HIS MADNESS

~   ~   ~

His name was Aladdin.

The clothes he was clad in

Proclaimed him an Arab at sight,

And he had for a chum

An uncommonly rum

Old afreet, six cubits in height.

This person infernal,

Who seemed so fraternal,

At bottom was frankly a scamp:

His future to sadden,

He gave to Aladdin

A wonderful magical lamp.

A marvel he dubbed it.

He said if one rubbed it

One’s wishes were done on the spot.

Now what would you do

Were it offered to you?

Refuse it undoubtedly (not)!

It’s thus comprehensive

With pleasure extensive

Aladdin accepted the gift,

And, by it befriended,

Erected a splendid

Château, with a bath and a lift!

Not dreaming of malice,

One year in his palace

He led a luxurious life,

Till his genius dread

Put it into his head

That he needed a beautiful wife.

Responding to friction,

The lamp this affliction

At once for Aladdin secured;

The latter, delighted,

Imagined he sighted

A future of quiet assured.

When gladly he chose her,

He didn’t suppose her

A philatelist, always agape

For novelties, yet

She had all of the set

Of triangular stamps of the Cape.

Some people malicious

Proclaimed her Mauritius

One-penny vermilion a sell.

But that was all rot. It

Was true she had got it,

And the tuppenny blue one as well!

Since thus she collected,

As might be expected,

She didn’t for bric-à-brac care,

So she traded the lamp

For an Ecuador stamp

That somebody told her was rare!

This act served to madden

The mind of Aladdin,

But, ’spite of his impotent wrath,

His manor-house vanished,

To nothingness banished,

And while he was taking a bath!

The average Arab

Is hard as a scarab

When some one has wounded his pride,

So he jumped up and down,

With a cynical frown,

On the face of his beautiful bride!

He had picked up a cargo

Of curious argot

While living in Paris the gay;

In the slang of that city

He cried without pity:

“Comme ça tu me fich’ras la paix!”

The Moral: When stamps you’re adept on

Of risks you are reckless, and yet

Beware! If your face is once stepped on,

That’s the last stamp you’re likely to get!

HOW A FISHERMAN CORKED
UP HIS FOE IN A JAR

~   ~   ~

A fisherman lived on the shore,

(It’s a habit that fishers affect,)

And his life was a hideous bore:

He had nothing to do but collect

Continual harvests of seaweed and shells,

Which he stuck upon photograph frames,

To sell to the guests in the summer hotels

With the quite inappropriate names!

He would wander along by the edge

Of the sea, and I know for a fact

From the pools with a portable dredge

He would curious creatures extract:

And, during the season, he always took lots

Of tourists out fishing for bass,

And showed them politely impossible spots,

In the culpable way of his class.

It happened one day, as afar

He roved on the glistening strand,

That he chanced on a curious jar,

Which lay on a hummock of sand.

It was closed at the mouth with a cork and a seal,

And over the top there was tied

A cloth, and the fisherman couldn’t but feel

That he ought to see what was inside.

This shows us the fisher beginning to blow

Of preserving himself while he pickled his foe.

But what were his fear and surprise

When the stopper he held in his hand!

For a genie of singular size

Appeared in a trice on the sand,

Who said in the roughest and rudest of tones:

“A monster you’ve foolishly freed!

I shall simply make way with you, body and bones,

And that with phenomenal speed!”

The fisherman looked in his face,

And answered him boldly: “My friend,

How you ever were packed in that space

Is something I don’t comprehend.

Pray do me the favor to show me how you

Can do it, as large as you are.”

The genie retorted: “That’s just what I’ll do!”

And promptly reëntered the jar.

The fisherman corked him up tight:

The genie protested and raved,

But for all he accomplished, he might

As well all his shouting have saved.

And, whenever a generous bonus is paid,

The fisherman willingly tells

The singular tale of this trick that he played,

To the guests in the summer hotels.

The Moral: When fortune you strike,

And you’ve slipped through a dangerous crack,

Get as forward as ever you like,

But never, oh, never get back!

ENVOI

~   ~   ~

Now don’t go and say you’d a dim

Idea of these stories before,

For I’ve frankly confessed them from Grimm,

The monarch of magical lore:

And if, by repeating, I took

Your time, I will candidly vow

This moral (the last in the book)

Has never been published till now!

The Moral: The skeleton’s Grimm,

But I have supplied the apparel,

So it’s fifty per cent. of it Him,

And it’s fifty per cent. of it Carryl.

But still (from the personal severing,

For it isn’t my nature to grump,)

I acknowledge a measure of Levering

Levering-ed the whole of the lump!