The Book of Humorous Verse Part 62

I'm filled with surprise Taxidermists should pa.s.s Off on you such poor gla.s.s; So unnatural they seem They'd make Audubon scream, And John Burroughs laugh To encounter such chaff.

Do take that bird down; Have him stuffed again, Brown!"

And the barber kept on shaving.

"With some sawdust and bark I could stuff in the dark An owl better than that.

I could make an old hat Look more like an owl Than that horrid fowl, Stuck up there so stiff like a side of coa.r.s.e leather.

In fact, about _him_ there's not one natural feather."

Just then, with a wink and a sly normal lurch, The owl, very gravely, got down from his perch, Walked round, and regarded his fault-finding critic (Who thought he was stuffed) with a glance a.n.a.lytic, And then fairly hooted, as if he should say: "Your learning's at fault _this_ time, anyway; Don't waste it again on a live bird, I pray.

I'm an owl; you're another. Sir Critic, good day!"

And the barber kept on shaving.

_James Thomas Fields._

WHAT WILL WE DO?

What will we do when the good days come-- When the prima donna's lips are dumb, And the man who reads us his "little things"

Has lost his voice like the girl who sings; When stilled is the breath of the cornet-man, And the shrilling chords of the quartette clan; When our neighbours' children have lost their drums-- Oh, what will we do when the good time comes?

Oh, what will we do in that good, blithe time, When the tramp will work--oh, thing sublime!

And the scornful dame who stands on your feet Will "Thank you, sir," for the proffered seat; And the man you hire to work by the day, Will allow you to do his work your way; And the cook who trieth your appet.i.te Will steal no more than she thinks is right; When the boy you hire will call you "Sir,"

Instead of "Say" and "Guverner"; When the funny man is humorsome-- How can we stand the millennium?

_Robert J. Burdette._

LIFE IN LACONICS

Given a roof, and a taste for rations, And you have the key to the "wealth of nations."

Given a boy, a tree, and a hatchet, And virtue strives in vain to match it.

Given a pair, a snake, and an apple, You make the whole world need a chapel.

Given "no cards," broad views, and a hovel, You have a realistic novel.

Given symptoms and doctors with potion and pill, And your heirs will ere long be contesting your will.

That good leads to evil there's no denying: If it were not for _truth_ there would be no _lying_.

"I'm n.o.body!" should have a hea.r.s.e; But then, "I'm somebody!" is worse.

"Folks say," _et cetera_! Well, they shouldn't, And if they knew you well, they wouldn't.

When you coddle your life, all its vigor and grace Shrink away with the whisper, "We're in the wrong place."

_Mary Mapes Dodge._

ON KNOWING WHEN TO STOP

The woodchuck told it all about.

"I'm going to build a dwelling Six stories high, up to the sky!"

He never tired of telling.

He dug the cellar smooth and well But made no more advances; That lovely hole so pleased his soul And satisfied his fancies.

_L. J. Bridgman._

REV. GABE TUCKER'S REMARKS

You may notch it on de palin's as a mighty resky plan To make your judgment by de clo'es dat kivers up a man; For I hardly needs to tell you how you often come across A fifty-dollar saddle on a twenty-dollar hoss; An', wukin' in de low-groun's, you diskiver, as you go, Dat de fines' shuck may hide de meanes' nubbin in a row.

I think a man has got a mighty slender chance for heben Dat holds on to his piety but one day out o' seben; Dat talks about de sinners wid a heap o' solemn chat, And nebber draps a nickel in de missionary hat; Dat's foremost in de meetin'-house for raisin' all de chunes, But lays aside his 'ligion wid his Sunday pantaloons.

I nebber judge o' people dat I meets along de way By de places whar dey come fum an' de houses whar dey stay; For de bantam chicken's awful fond o' roostin' pretty high, An' de turkey buzzard sails above de eagle in de sky; Dey ketches little minners in de middle ob de sea, An' you finds de smalles' possum up de bigges' kind o' tree!

_Unknown._

THURSDAY

The sun was setting, and vespers done; From chapel the monks came one by one, And down they went thro' the garden trim, In ca.s.sock and cowl, to the river's brim.

Ev'ry brother his rod he took; Ev'ry rod had a line and a hook; Ev'ry hook had a bait so fine, And thus they sang in the even s.h.i.+ne: "Oh, to-morrow will be Friday, so we'll fish the stream to-day!

Oh, to-morrow will be Friday, so we'll fish the stream to-day!

Benedicite!"

So down they sate by the river's brim, And fish'd till the light was growing dim; They fish'd the stream till the moon was high, But never a fish came wand'ring by.

They fish'd the stream in the bright moons.h.i.+ne, But not one fish would he come to dine.

And the Abbot said, "It seems to me These rascally fish are all gone to sea.

And to-morrow will be Friday, but we've caught no fish to-day; Oh, to-morrow will be Friday, but we've caught no fish to-day!

Maledicite!"

So back they went to the convent gate, Abbot and monks disconsolate; For they thought of the morrow with faces white, Saying, "Oh, we must curb our appet.i.te!