The Book of Humorous Verse Part 46

''Tis a shame,' sez he, 'f'r to blame,' sez he, 'A lady so fair an' thrue, An' so divinely tall'-- 'Tis po'ms he talked, ye Jew!

An' ye've cooked yer goose, an' now ye're loose F'r to folly the goats! Whurroo!"

IV

Sez Alderman Grady To Officer Brady: "Where's Katie Macready, The Confidence Queen?

She's niece to O'Lafferty's Cousins, the Caffertys-- Sinitor Rafferty's Steady colleen!

"'Way up in Tammany Hall They's a gintleman layin' f'r you!

'He's pinched,' sez he, 'an' cinched,' sez he, 'A lady tray comme eel foo!

Go dangle th' tillyphone call, An' gimme La Mulberry Roo, F'r the town is too warrm f'r this gendarme, An' he'll go to the goats, mon Dieu!'"

V

Sez Alderman Grady To Officer Brady: "McCabe is afraid he Can't open to-night, F'r throuble's a-brewin', An' mischief's a-stewin', Wid nothin' a-doin'

An' everything tight!

There's Register Ronnell, Commissioner Donnell, An' Congressman Connell Preparin' f'r flight; The Dhistrict Attorney Told Magistrate Kearny That Captain McBurney Was dyin' o' fright!

"Oh!

'Way up in Tammany Hall They's a gintleman lookin' f'r you!

'Bedad,' sez he, 'he's mad,' sez he.

'So turrn on the screw f'r Bellevue, An' chain 'im ag'in' the wall, An' lather 'im wan or two, An' tether 'im out on the Bloomin'dale route Like a loonytick goat! Whurroo!'"

_Robert W. Chambers._

POST-IMPRESSIONISM

I cannot tell you how I love The canvases of Mr. Dove, Which Sat.u.r.day I went to see In Mr. Thurber's gallery.

At first you fancy they are built As patterns for a crazy quilt, But soon you see that they express An ambient simultaneousness.

This thing which you would almost bet Portrays a Spanish omelette, Depicts instead, with wondrous skill, A horse and cart upon a hill.

Now, Mr. Dove has too much art To show the horse or show the cart; Instead, he paints the _creak_ and _strain_, Get it? No pike is half as plain.

This thing which would appear to show A fancy vest scenario, Is really quite another thing, A flock of pigeons on the wing.

But Mr. Dove is much too keen To let a single bird be seen; To show the pigeons would not do And so he simply paints the _coo_.

It's all as simple as can be; He paints the things you cannot see, Just as composers please the ear With "programme" things you cannot hear.

Dove is the cleverest of chaps; And, gazing at his rhythmic maps, I wondered (and I'm wondering yet) Whether he did them on a bet.

_Bert Leston Taylor._

TO THE PORTRAIT OF "A GENTLEMAN,"

IN THE ATHENaeUM GALLERY

It may be so--perhaps thou hast A warm and loving heart; I will not blame thee for thy face, Poor devil as thou art.

That thing, thou fondly deem'st a nose, Unsightly though it be,-- In spite of all the cold world's scorn, It may be much to thee.

Those eyes,--among thine elder friends Perhaps they pa.s.s for blue;-- No matter,--if a man can see, What more have eyes to do?

Thy mouth--that fissure in thy face By something like a chin,-- May be a very useful place To put thy victual in.

I know thou hast a wife at home, I know thou hast a child, By that subdued, domestic smile Upon thy features mild.

That wife sits fearless by thy side, That cherub on thy knee; They do not shudder at thy looks, They do not shrink from thee.

Above thy mantel is a hook,-- A portrait once was there; It was thine only ornament,-- Alas! that hook is bare.

She begged thee not to let it go, She begged thee all in vain: She wept,--and breathed a trembling prayer To meet it safe again.

It was a bitter sight to see That picture torn away; It was a solemn thought to think What all her friends would say!

And often in her calmer hours, And in her happy dreams, Upon its long-deserted hook The absent portrait seems.

Thy wretched infant turns his head In melancholy wise, And looks to meet the placid stare Of those unbending eyes.

I never saw thee, lovely one,-- Perchance I never may; It is not often that we cross Such people in our way;

But if we meet in distant years, Or on some foreign sh.o.r.e, Sure I can take my Bible oath I've seen that face before.

_Oliver Wendell Holmes._

CACOeTHES SCRIBENDI

If all the trees in all the woods were men, And each and every blade of gra.s.s a pen; If every leaf on every shrub and tree Turned to a sheet of foolscap; every sea Were changed to ink, and all earth's living tribes Had nothing else to do but act as scribes, And for ten thousand ages, day and night, The human race should write, and write, and write, Till all the pens and paper were used up, And the huge inkstand was an empty cup, Still would the scribblers cl.u.s.tered round its brink Call for more pens, more paper, and more ink.

_Oliver Wendell Holmes._

CONTENTMENT