The Wit and Humor of America Volume VII Part 9

A camp-meeting of _this sort_ is, all things considered, the very best contrivance for making the largest number of converts in the shortest possible time; and also for enlarging most speedily the bounds of a Church _Visible_ and _Militant_.

A RHYME FOR CHRISTMAS

BY JOHN CHALLING

Publication delayed by the author's determined but futile attempt to find the rhyme

If _Browning_ only were here, This yule-ish time o' the year-- This mule-ish time o' the year,-- Stubbornly still refusing To add to the rhymes we've been using Since the first Christmas-glee (One might say) chantingly Rendered by rudest hinds Of the pelt-clad shepherding kinds Who didn't know Song from b- U-double-l's-foot!--Pah!-- (Haply the old Egyptian _ptah_-- Though I'd hardly wager a baw- Bee--or a _b.u.mble_, for that-- And that's flat!)....

But the thing that I want to get at Is a rhyme for _Christmas_-- Nay! nay! nay! nay! not _isthmus_-- The t- and the h- sounds covertly are Gnawing the nice auracular Senses until one may hear them gnar-- And the terminal, too, for m_a_s, is m_u_s, So _that_ will not do for us.

Try for it--sigh for it--cry for it--die for it!

O _but_ if Browning were here to apply for it, _He'd_ rhyme you _Christmas_-- _He'd_ make a _mist pa.s.s_ Over--something o' ruther-- Or find you the rhyme's very brother In lovers that _kissed fast_ _To baffle the moon_,--as he'd lose the _t_-final In fas-t as it blended with _to_ (mark the spinal Elision--tip-clipt as exquisitely nicely And hyper-exactingly sliced to precisely The extremest technical need): Or he'd _twist gla.s.s_, Or he'd have a _kissed la.s.s_, Or shake neath our noses some great giant _fist-ma.s.s_-- No matter! If Robert were here, _he_ could do it, Though it took us till Christmas next year to see through it.

MY CIGARETTE[1]

BY CHARLES F. LUMMIS

My cigarette! The amulet That charms afar unrest and sorrow; The magic wand that far beyond To-day can conjure up to-morrow.

Like love's desire, thy crown of fire So softly with the twilight blending, And ah! meseems, a poet's dreams Are in thy wreaths of smoke ascending.

My cigarette! Can I forget How Kate and I, in sunny weather, Sat in the shade the elm-tree made And rolled the fragrant weed together?

I at her side beatified, To hold and guide her fingers willing; She rolling slow the paper's snow, Putting my heart in with the filling.

My cigarette! I see her yet, The white smoke from her red lips curling, Her dreaming eyes, her soft replies, Her gentle sighs, her laughter purling!

Ah, dainty roll, whose parting soul Ebbs out in many a snowy billow, I, too, would burn if I might earn Upon her lips so soft a pillow!

Ah, cigarette! The gay coquette Has long forgot the flames she lighted, And you and I unthinking by Alike are thrown, alike are slighted.

The darkness gathers fast without, A raindrop on my window plashes; My cigarette and heart are out, And naught is left me but the ashes.

[Footnote 1: By permission of Life Publis.h.i.+ng Company.]

IT IS TIME TO BEGIN TO CONCLUDE

BY A.H. LAIDLAW

Ye Parsons, desirous all sinners to save, And to make each a prig or a prude, If two thousand long years have not made us behave, It is time you began to conclude.

Ye Husbands, who wish your sweet mates to grow mum, And whose tongues you have never subdued, If ten years of your reign have not made them grow dumb, It is time to begin to conclude.

Ye Matrons of men whose brown meerschaum still mars The sweet kiss with tobacco bedewed, After pleading nine years, if they still puff cigars, It is time you began to conclude.

Ye Lawyers, who aim to reform all the land, And your statutes forever intrude, If five thousand lost years have not worked as you planned, It is time to begin to conclude.

Ye Lovers, who sigh for the heart of a maid, And forty-four years have pursued, If two scores of young years have not taught you your trade, It is time you began to conclude.

Ye Doctors, who claim to cure every ill, And so much of mock learning exude, If the _Comma Bacillus_ still laughs at your pill, It is time to begin to conclude.

Ye Maidens of Fifty, who lonely abide, Yet who heartily scout solitude, If Jack with his whiskers is not at your side, It is time to begin to conclude.

NOTHIN' DONE[2]

BY SAM S. STINSON

Winter is too cold fer work; Freezin' weather makes me s.h.i.+rk.

Spring comes on an' finds me wis.h.i.+n'

I could end my days a-fis.h.i.+n'.

Then in summer, when it's hot, I say work kin go to pot.

Autumn days, so calm an' hazy, Sorter make me kinder lazy.

That's the way the seasons run.

Seems I can't git nothin' done.

[Footnote 2: Lippincott's Magazine.]

MARGINS

BY ROBERT J. BURDETTE

My dreams so fair that used to be, The promises of youth's bright clime, So changed, alas; come back to me Sweet memories of that hopeful time Before I learned, with doubt oppressed, There are no birds in next year's nest.

The seed I sowed in fragrant spring The summer's sun to vivify With his warm kisses, ripening To golden harvest by and by, Got caught by drought, like all the rest-- There are no birds in next year's nest.

The stock I bought at eighty-nine, Broke down next day to twenty-eight; Some squatters jumped my silver mine, My own convention smashed my slate; No more in "futures" I'll invest-- There are no birds in next year's nest.