“No prince nor poet proud am I,
Nor scion of an ancient clan;
I cannot place my rank so high--
I'm the Codliver Capsule Man.
“No soulful sonnets I indite,
Nor do I play the pipes of Pan;
In five small words my place I write--
I'm the Codliver Capsule Man.
“No soldier bold, with many scars,
Nor hacking, slashing partisan;
I have not galloped to the wars--
I'm the Codliver Capsule Man.
“No, mine is not the wounding steel,
My life is on a gentler plan;
My mission is to cure and heal--
I'm the Codliver Capsule Man.
“I do not cause the poor distress
By hoarding all the gold I can;
I, advertising, pay the press--
I'm the Codliver Capsule Man.
“And if no sonnets I can write,
Pray do not put me under ban;
Remember, if your blood turns white,
I'm the Codliver Capsule Man!”
“Well,” asked Biggs, the morning after I had delivered the poem, “how
did she take it?”
I looked at Biggs suspiciously. If I had seen a glimmer of an indication
that he was fooling with me, I would have killed him; but he seemed to
be perfectly serious.
“Was that poem intended to be humorous?” I asked.
“Why, yes! Yes! Certainly so,” Biggs replied. “At least it was supposed
to be witty; to provoke a smile and good humor at least.”
“Then, Biggs,” I said, “it was a glorious success. They smiled. They
smiled right out loud. In fact, they shouted. The poet and I had to
pour water on Kate to get her out of the hysterics. It is all right, of
course, to be funny; but the next time don't be so awful funny. It is
not worth while. I like to see Kate laugh, if it helps my cause; but I
don't want to have her die of laughter. It would defeat my ends.”
“That is so,” said Biggs, thoughtfully. “Did she say anything?”
“Yes,” I said; “when she was able to speak, she asked me if the poem was
a love poem.”
“What did you tell her?” asked Biggs, and he leaned low over his desk,
turning over papers.
“I told her it was,” I replied; “and she said that if any one was
looking for a genius to annex to the family, they ought not to miss the
chance.”
“Ah, ha!” said Biggs, proudly; “what did I tell you? You humbled
yourself. You said, 'See! I am only the lowly Codliver Capsule man;' but
you said it so cleverly, so artistically, that you gave the impression
that you were a genius. You see what rapid strides you are making? Now
here,” he added, taking a paper from his desk, “is No. 4, in which you
gracefully and poetically come to the point of showing her your real
standing. You have been humble--now you assert yourself in your real
colors. When she reads this she will begin to see that you wish to make
her your wife, for no man states his prospects thus clearly unless he
means to propose soon. You will see that she will be ready to drop into
your hand like a ripe peach from a bough. I have called this 'Little
Drops of Water.'”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “If this is going to have anything about the
Codliver Capsules in it, don't you think the title is just a little
suggestive? You know our formula. Don't you think that 'Little Drops
of Water' is rather letting out a trade secret?” Biggs smiled
sarcastically.
“Not at all,” he said. “The suggestion I intended to make was that
'Little drops of water, Little grains of sand, Make the mighty ocean,'
etc. But if you wish, we will call it 'Many a Mickle makes a Muckle';”
and he read the following poem in a clear, steady voice:--
“How small is a Codliver Capsule,
And ten of them put in each box!
And the boxes and labels cost something--
No wonder that Ignorance mocks!
“How cheap are the Codliver Capsules;
Two boxes one dollar will buy!
One Capsule costs only a nickel--
The price is considered not high.
“Well known are the Codliver Capsules,--
We herald their fame everywhere;
And costly is our advertising,
But Perkins & Co. do not care.
“We spend on the Codliver Capsules,
To advertise them, every year,
A Million cold Uncle Sam dollars--
I hope you will keep this point clear.
“How, then, can the Codliver Capsules,
Which bring but a nickel apiece,
Yield us on our invested money
A single per cent, of increase?
“How? We sell of the Codliver Capsules
Full four million boxes a year,
Which, at fifty cents each, gives a total
Of two million dollars, my dear.
“You see that the Codliver Capsules,
When all advertising is paid,
Net us just a million of dollars,
From which other costs are defrayed.
“Less these, then, the Codliver Capsules
Net five hundred thousand of good,
Cold, useful American dollars--
A point I would have understood.
“And who owns the Codliver Capsules?
Two partners in Perkins & Co.
One-half of the five hundred thousand
To Perkins the Great must then go.”
“And the rest of the Codliver Capsules
Belong to your servant, my sweet,
And these, with my love and devotion,
I hasten to lay at your feet.”
When I read this pretty poem to Kate, she began laughing at the first
line, and I kept my eye on the water-pitcher, in case I should need it
again to quell her hysterics; but, as I proceeded with the poem,
she became thoughtful. When I had finished, her poet was laughing
uproariously; but Kate was silent.
“Is it possible,” she said, “that out of these funny little pink things
you make for yourself two hundred and fifty thousand dollars a year?”
“Certainly,” I said. “Didn't you understand that? I'll read the poem
again.”
“No! no!” she exclaimed, glancing hurriedly at the poet, who was still
rolled up with laughter. “Don't do that. I don't like it as well as your
other poems. I do not think it is half so funny, and I can't see what
Mr. Milward there sees in it that is so humorous.”
My face must have fallen; for I had put a great deal of faith in this
poem, because of what Biggs had said. Kate saw it.
“You are not a real poet,” she said as gently as she could. “You lack
the true celestial fire. Your poems all savor of those I read in the
street-cars. Poets are born, and not made. The true poet is a noble
soul, floating above the heads of common mortals, destined to live
alone, and unmarried--”
Mr. Milward sat up suddenly and ceased laughing.
“And now,” continued Kate, “I must ask you both to excuse me, for I am
very tired.” But what do you think! As I was bowing good-night, while
her poet was struggling into his rubber overshoes, she whispered, so
that only I could hear:--
“Come up to-morrow evening. I will be all alone!”