of a bore.“How would it do if you whaled yourself
From eight to ten or from one to three?
Or if ‘More’ is your motto, pray hire a grotto;
I know of one you can have rent free.”
Ambrose the anchorite bowed his head,
And girded his loins and went away.
He rented a cavern not far from a tavern,
And tippled by night and scourged by day.
The more the penance the more the sin,
The more he whopped him the more he drank;
Till his hair fell out and his cheeks fell in,
And his corpulent figure grew long and lank.
At Whitsuntide he up and died,
While flaying himself for his final spree.
And who shall say whether ’twas liquor or leather
That hurried him into eternity?
They made him a saint, as well they might,
And gave him a beautiful aureole.
And – somehow or other, this circle of light
Suggests the rim of the Flowing Bowl.
TO A TALL SPRUCE
Pride of the forest primeval,
Peer of the glorious pine,
Doomed to an end that is evil,
Fearful the fate that is thine!
Peer of the glorious pine,
Now the landlooker has found you,
Fearful the fate that is thine —
Fate of the spruces around you.
Now the landlooker has found you,
Stripped of your beautiful plume —
Fate of the spruces around you —
Swiftly you’ll draw to your doom.
Stripped of your beautiful plume,
Bzzng! into logs they will whip you.
Swiftly you’ll draw to your doom;
To the pulp mill they will ship you.
Bzzng! into logs they will whip you,
Lumbermen greedy for gold.
To the pulp mill they will ship you.
Hearken, there’s worse to be told!
Lumbermen greedy for gold
Over your ruins will caper.
Hearken, there’s worse to be told:
You will be made into paper!
Over your ruins will caper
Murderous shavers and hooks.
You will be made into paper!
You will be made into books!
Murderous shavers and hooks
Swiftly your pride will diminish.
You will be made into books!
Horrible, horrible finish!
Swiftly your pride will diminish.
You will become a romance!
Horrible, horrible finish!
Fate has no sadder mischance.
You will become a romance,
Filled with “Gadzooks!” and “Have at you!”
Fate has no sadder mischance;
It would wring tears from a statue.
Filled with “Gadzooks!” and “Have at you!”
You may become a “Lazarre” —
(It would wring tears from a statue) —
“Graustark,” “Stovepipe of Navarre.”
You may become a “Lazarre”;
Fate has still worse it can turn on —
“Graustark,” “Stovepipe of Navarre,”
Even a “Dorothy Vernon”!
Fate has still worse it can turn on —
Lower you cannot descend;
Even a “Dorothy Vernon”! —
That is the limit – the end.
Lower you cannot descend.
Doomed to an end that is evil,
That is the limit – the end!
Pride of the forest primeval.
IN THE LAMPLIGHT
The dinner done, the lamp is lit,
And in its mellow glow we sit
And talk of matters, grave and gay,
That went to make another day.
Comes Little One, a book in hand,
With this request, nay, this command —
(For who’d gainsay the little sprite) —
“Please – will you read to me to-night?”
Read to you, Little One? Why, yes.
What shall it be to-night? You guess
You’d like to hear about the Bears —
Their bowls of porridge, beds and chairs?
Well, that you shall… There! that tale’s done!
And now – you’d like another one?
To-morrow evening, Curly Head.
It’s “hass-pass seven.” Off to bed!
So each night another story:
Wicked dwarfs and giants gory;
Dragons fierce and princes daring,
Forth to fame and fortune faring;
Wandering tots, with leaves for bed;
Houses made of gingerbread;
Witches bad and fairies good,
And all the wonders of the wood.
“I like the witches best,” says she
Who nightly nestles on my knee;
And why by them she sets such store,
Psychologists may puzzle o’er.
Her likes are mine, and I agree
With all that she confides to me.
And thus we travel, hand in hand,
The storied roads of Fairyland.
Ah, Little One, when years have fled,
And left their silver on my head,
And when the dimming eyes of age
With difficulty scan the page,
Perhaps I’ll turn the tables then;
Perhaps I’ll put the question, when
I borrow of your better sight —
“Please – will you read to me to-night?”
THE BREAKFAST FOOD FAMILY
John
