Something Else Again Part 6

Never mind it if you find it wet upon the street and slippery; Never bother if the street is full of ooze; Do not fret that you'll upset, that you will spoil your summer frippery, You may turn about as sharply as you choose.

For those myriad claws will grip the road and keep the car from skidding, And your steering gear will hold it fast and true; Every atom of the car will be responsive to your bidding, AND those thousand claws are mileage insurance, too-- Oh, indubitably, Those thousand claws are mileage insurance, too.

If the Advertising Man Had Been Praed, or Locker

"C'est distingue," says Madame La Mode, 'Tis a fabric of subtle distinction.

For street wear it is superb.

The chic of the Rue de la Paix-- The style of Fifth Avenue-- The character of Regent Street-- All are expressed in this new fabric creation.

Leather-like but feather-light-- It drapes and folds and distends to perfection.

And it may be had in dull or glazed, Plain or grained, basket weave or moired surfaces!

--Advertis.e.m.e.nt of Pontine, in _Vanity Fair_.

"C'est distingue," says Madame La Mode.

Subtly distinctive as a fabric fair; Nor Keats nor Sh.e.l.ley in his loftiest ode Could thrum the line to tell how it will wear.

The flair, the chic that is Rue de la Paix, The style that is Fifth Avenue, New York.

The character of Regent Street in May-- As leather strong, yet light as any cork.

All these for her in this fair fabric clad.

(Light of my life, O thou my Genevieve!) In surface dull or glazed it may be had-- In plain or grained, moired or basket weave.

Georgie Porgie

BY MOTHER GOOSE AND OUR OWN SARA TEASDALE

Bennie's kisses left me cold, Eddie's made me yearn to die, Jimmie's made me laugh aloud,-- But Georgie's made me cry.

Bennie sees me every night, Eddie sees me every day, Jimmie sees me all the time,-- But Georgie stays away.

On First Looking into Bee Palmer's Shoulders

WITH BOWS TO KEATS AND KEITH'S

["The World's Most Famous Shoulders"]

_"Then felt I like some watcher of the skies When a new planet swims into his ken, Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes He stared at the Pacific--and all his men Looked at each other with a wild surmise-- Silent upon a peak in Darien."_

"Bee" Palmer has taken the raw, human--all too human--stuff of the underworld, with its sighs of sadness and regret, its mad merriment, its swift blaze of pa.s.sion, its turbulent dances, its outlaw music, its songs of the social bandit, and made a new art product of the theatre. She is to the sources of jazz and the blues what Francois Villon was to the wild life of Paris. Both have found exquisite blossoms of art in the sector of life most removed from the concert room and the boudoir, and their harvest has the vigour, the resolute life, the stimulating quality, the indelible impress of daredevil, care-free, do-as-you-please lives of the picturesque men and women who defy convention.--From Keith's Press Agent.

Much have I travell'd in the realms of jazz, And many goodly arms and shoulders seen Quiver and quake--if you know what I mean; I've seen a lot, as everybody has.

Some plaudits got, while others got the razz.

But when I saw Bee Palmer, s.h.i.+mmy queen, I shook--in sympathy--my troubled bean, And said, "This is the utter razmataz."

Then felt I like some patient with a pain When a new surgeon swims into his ken, Or like stout Brodie, when, with reeling brain, He jumped into the river. There and then I subwayed up and took the morning train To Norwalk, Naugatuck, and Darien.

To a Vers Librist

"Oh bard," I said, "your verse is free; The shackles that enc.u.mber me, The fetters that are my obsession, Are never gyves to your expression.

"The fear of falsities in rhyme, In metre, quant.i.ty, or time, Is never yours; you sing along Your unpremeditated song."

"Correct," the young vers librist said.

"Whatever pops into my head I write, and have but one small fetter: I start each line with a capital letter.

"But rhyme and metre--Ishkebibble!-- Are actually neglig_ib_le.

I go ahead, like all my school, Without a single silly rule."

Of rhyme I am so reverential He made me feel inconsequential.

I shed some strongly saline tears For bards I loved in younger years.

"If Keats had fallen for your fluff,"

I said, "he might have done good stuff.

If Burns had thrown his rhymes away, His songs might still be sung to-day."

O bards of rhyme and metre free, My grat.i.tude goes out to ye For all your deathless lines--ahem!

Let's see, now.... What _is_ one of them?

How Do You Tackle Your Work?

How do you tackle your work each day?

Are you scared of the job you find?

Do you grapple the task that comes your way With a confident, easy mind?

Do you stand right up to the work ahead Or fearfully pause to view it?

Do you start to toil with a sense of dread?

Or feel that you're going to do it?