A line-o'-verse or two Part 13

_L'Envoi_

From New Year to Christmas I'm free to declare That, for ways that are dull and for verse that is vain, One bore is peculiar--and not at all rare: The man with the limerick gives me a pain.

THE POLE

(_Tune_: "_Carca.s.sonne._")

I'm an old man, I'm eighty-three, I seldom get away; My work, it keeps me close at home-- I have no time for play.

If it were not for the journey back, That so fatigues a soul, I'd like to take a little trip-- I never have seen the Pole.

'Tis said that in that favored place There is no heat or drouth; And that, whichever way you turn, You're looking south-by-south.

Some say there is a flagstaff there, Some say there is a hole.

Think of the years that I have lived And never have seen the Pole!

The parson a hundred times is right-- We ought to stay at home.

I'm an old man, I'm eighty-three, I have no call to roam.

And yet if I could somehow find The time--G.o.d bless my soul!-- I think that I would die content If I only could see the Pole!

My brother has seen Baraboo, If so he speak the truth; My wife and son they both have been As far as to Duluth; My cousin cruised to Eastport, Maine, On a s.h.i.+p that carried coal; I've been as far as Mackinac-- But I never have seen the Pole!

SH-H-H-H!

"_Mr. Mabie is now reading the summer books._"

--THE LADIES' HOME JOURNAL.

What shall we buy for a summer's day?

What is good reading and what is not?

Mabie will tell us--we wait his say; For Mabie alone can know what's what.

Meanwhile the world is as still as death; Mute inquiry is in men's looks; Everybody is holding his breath-- Mabie is reading the summer books.

The suns are at pause in the cosmic race; The mills of the G.o.ds have ceased to grind; The only sound that is heard in s.p.a.ce Is the rhythmic clicking of Mabie's mind.

Elsewhere silence, or near or far-- Chattering Pleiads or babbling brooks; For the whisper has pa.s.sed from star to star: "Mabie is reading the summer books."

THE VANISHED FAY

Tell me, whither do they go, All the Little Ones we know?

They "grow up" before our eyes, And the fairy spirit flies.

Time the Piper, pied and gay-- Does he lure them all away?

Do they follow after him, Over the horizon's brim?

Daughter's growing fair to see, Slim and straight as popple tree.

Still a child in heart and head, But--the fairy spirit's fled.

As a fay at break of day, Little One has flown away, On the stroke of fairy bell-- When and whither, who can tell?

Still her childish fancies weave In the Land of Make Believe; And her love of magic lore Is as avid as before.

Dollies big and dollies small Still are at her beck and call.

But for all this pleasant play, Little One has gone away.

Whither, whither have they flown, All the fays we all have known?

To what "faery lands forlorn"

On the sound of elfin horn?

As she were a woodland sprite, Little One has vanished quite.

Waves the wand of Oberon: c.o.c.k has crowed--the fay is gone!

AUTUMN REVERY

When the leaves are falling crimson And the worm is off its feed, When the rag weed and the jimson Have agreed to go to seed, When the air in forest bowers Has a tang like Rhenish wine, And to breathe it for two hours Makes you feel you'd like to dine, When the frost is on the pumpkin And the corn is in the shock, And the cheek of country b.u.mpkin City faces seems to mock,-- When you come across a ditty (Like this one) of Autumn's charm, Then it's pleasant in the city, Where they keep the houses warm.

THE RECOIL

I met a friend of lofty brow-- As lofty as the laws allow.

I said to him, "You'll know, I'm sure-- What's doing now in litrychoor?"

Said he: "I hate the very name; I'm weary of the blooming game.

I read, whenever I have time, Something by Phillips Oppenheim."

"Cheer up!" said I. "What's new in Art?-- You drift around the picture mart.

What do you think of Mr. Blum?-- Some say he's great, some say he's b.u.m."

"I'm strong for Blum," my friend replied; "His pictures are so queer and pied.

I wouldn't change them if I could; I'd rather have things queer than good."

I spoke of this, I spoke of that, But everything was stale and flat.

Said I, "You once adored the chaste, You used to have such perfect taste."

"Good taste," he wailed, "brings but distress, 'Tis an affliction, nothing less; While those whose taste is punk and vile Are happy all the blessed while."

"Oh, take a brace, old man!" said I.

"Let me prescribe a nip of rye, And then we'll go to see a play; I've two for Barrymore to-day."

"No, no," he groaned; "'twould be a bore, With all respect to Barrymore."

Said I: "Then whither shall we go?"