Second Book of Verse Part 11

THE PARTRIDGE.

AS beats the sun from mountain crest, With "Pretty, pretty,"

Cometh the partridge from her nest.

The flowers threw kisses sweet to her (For all the flowers that bloomed knew her); Yet hasteneth she to mine and me,-- Ah, pretty, pretty!

Ah, dear little partridge!

And when I hear the partridge cry So pretty, pretty, Upon the house-top breakfast I.

She comes a-chirping far and wide, And swinging from the mountain-side I see and hear the dainty dear,-- Ah, pretty, pretty!

Ah, dear little partridge!

Thy nest's inlaid with posies rare, And pretty, pretty; Bloom violet, rose, and lily there; The place is full of balmy dew (The tears of flowers in love with you!); And one and all, impa.s.sioned, call, "O pretty, pretty!

O dear little partridge!"

Thy feathers they are soft and sleek,-- So pretty, pretty!

Long is thy neck, and small thy beak, The color of thy plumage far More bright than rainbow colors are.

Sweeter than dove is she I love,-- My pretty, pretty!

My dear little partridge!

When comes the partridge from the tree, So pretty, pretty, And sings her little hymn to me, Why, all the world is cheered thereby, The heart leaps up into the eye, And Echo then gives back again Our "Pretty, pretty!"

Our "Dear little partridge!"

Admitting thee most blest of all, And pretty, pretty, The birds come with thee at thy call; In flocks they come, and round thee play, And this is what they seem to say,-- They say and sing, each feathered thing, "Ah, pretty, pretty!

Ah, dear little partridge!"

CORINTHIAN HALL.

CORINTHIAN HALL is a tumble-down place, Which some finical folks have p.r.o.nounced a disgrace; But once was a time when Corinthian Hall Excited the rapture and plaudits of all, With its carpeted stairs, And its new yellow chairs, And its stunning _ensemble_ of citified airs.

Why, the Atchison Champion said 'twas the best Of Thespian temples extant in the West.

It was new, and was ours,--that was ages ago, Before opry had spoiled the legitimate show,-- It was new, and was ours! We could toss back the jeers Our rivals had launched at our city for years.

Corinthian Hall!

Why, it discounted all Other halls in the Valley, and well I recall The night of the opening; from near and afar Came the crowd to see Toodles performed by De Bar.

Oh, those days they were palmy, and never again Shall earth see such genius as gladdened us then; For actors were actors, and each one knew how To whoop up his art in the sweat of his brow.

He'd a tragedy air, and wore copious hair; And when he ate victuals, he ordered 'em rare.

Dame Fortune ne'er feazed him,--in fact, never could When liquor was handy and walking was good.

And the shows in those days! Ah, how well I recall The shows that I saw in Corinthian Hall!

Maggie Mitch.e.l.l and Lotty were then in their prime; And as for Jane Coombs, she was simply sublime; And I'm ready to swear there is none could compare With Breslau in Borgia, supported by Fair; While in pa.s.sionate roles it was patent to us That the great John A. Stevens was _ne ultra plus_.

And was there demand for the tribute of tears, We had sweet Charlotte Thompson those halcyon years, And wee Katie Putnam. The savants allow That the like of Kate Fisher ain't visible now.

What artist to-day have we equal to Rae, Or to st.u.r.dy Jack Langrishe? G.o.d rest 'em, I say!

And when died Buchanan, the "St. Joe Gazette"

Opined that the sun of our drama had set.

Corinthian Hall was devoted to song When the Barnabee concert troupe happened along, Or Ossian E. Dodge, or the Comical Brown, Or the Holmans with William H. Crane struck our town; But the one special card That hit us all hard Was Caroline Richings and Peter Bernard; And the bells of the Bergers still ring in my ears; And, oh, how I laughed at Sol Russell those years!

The Haverly Minstrels were boss in those days, And our critics accorded them columns of praise; They'd handsome mustaches and big cl.u.s.ter rings, And their s.h.i.+rt fronts were blazing with diamonds and things; They gave a parade, and sweet music they made Every evening in front of the house where they played.

'Twixt posters and hand-bills the town was agog For Primrose and West in their great statue clog.

Many years intervene, yet I'm free to maintain That I doted on Chanfrau, McWade, and Frank Frayne; Tom Stivers, the local, declared for a truth That Mayo as Hamlet was better than Booth: While in roles that were thrillin', involving much killin', Jim Wallick loomed up our ideal of a villain; Mrs. Bowers, Alvin Joslin, Frank Aiken,--they all Earned their t.i.tles to fame in Corinthian Hall.

But Time, as begrudging the glory that fell On the spot I revere and remember so well, Spent his spite on the timbers, the plaster, and paint, And breathed on them all his morbiferous taint; So the trappings of gold and the gear manifold Got gangrened with rust and rheumatic with mould, And we saw dank decay and oblivion fall, Like vapors of night, on Corinthian Hall.

When the gas is ablaze in the opry at night, And the music goes floating on billows of light, Why, I often regret that I'm grown to a man, And I pine to be back where my mission began, And I'm fain to recall Reminiscences all That come with the thought of Corinthian Hall,-- To hear and to see what delighted me then, And to revel in raptures of boyhood again.

Though Corinthian Hall is a tumble-down place, Which some finical folks have p.r.o.nounced a disgrace, There is one young old boy, quite as worthy as they, Who, aweary of art as expounded to-day, Would surrender what gold He's ama.s.sed to behold A t.i.the of the wonderful doings of old, A glimpse of the glories that used to enthrall Our _creme de la creme_ in Corinthian Hall.

THE RED, RED WEST.

I'VE travelled in heaps of countries, and studied all kinds of art, Till there isn't a critic or connoisseur who's properly deemed so smart; And I'm free to say that the grand results of my explorations show That somehow paint gets redder the farther out West I go.

I've sipped the voluptuous sherbet that the Orientals serve, And I've felt the glow of red Bordeaux tingling each separate nerve; I've sampled your cla.s.sic Ma.s.sic under an arbor green, And I've reeked with song a whole night long over a brown poteen.

The stalwart brew of the land o' cakes, the schnapps of the frugal Dutch, The much-praised wine of the distant Rhine, and the beer praised overmuch, The ale of dear old London, and the port of Southern climes,-- All, _ad infin._, have I taken in a hundred thousand times.

Yet, as I afore-mentioned, these other charms are naught Compared with the paramount gorgeousness with which the West is fraught; For Art and Nature are just the same in the land where the porker grows, And the paint keeps getting redder the farther out West one goes.

Our savants have never discovered the reason why this is so, And ninety per cent of the laymen care less than the savants know; It answers every purpose that this is manifest: The paint keeps getting redder the farther you go out West.

Give me no home 'neath the pale pink dome of European skies, No cot for me by the salmon sea that far to the southward lies; But away out West I would build my nest on top of a carmine hill, Where I can paint, without restraint, creation redder still!

THE THREE KINGS OF COLOGNE.

FROM out Cologne there came three kings To wors.h.i.+p Jesus Christ, their King.

To Him they sought fine herbs they brought, And many a beauteous golden thing; They brought their gifts to Bethlehem town, And in that manger set them down.

Then spake the first king, and he said: "O Child, most heavenly, bright, and fair!

I bring this crown to Bethlehem town For Thee, and only Thee, to wear; So give a heavenly crown to me When I shall come at last to Thee!"

The second, then. "I bring Thee here This royal robe, O Child!" he cried; "Of silk 'tis spun, and such an one There is not in the world beside; So in the day of doom requite Me with a heavenly robe of white!"

The third king gave his gift, and quoth: "Spikenard and myrrh to Thee I bring, And with these twain would I most fain Anoint the body of my King; So may their incense sometime rise To plead for me in yonder skies!"