Leave go my hands. Let me catch breath and see,
What is this confine either side of me?
Green pumpkin vines about me coil and crawl,
Seen sidelong, like a 'possum in a tree,--
Ah me, ah me, that pumpkins are so small!
Oh, my fair love, I charge thee, let me out
From this gold lush encircling me about;
I turn and only meet a pumpkin wall.
The crescent moon shines slim,--but I am stout,--
Ah me, ah me, that pumpkins are so small!
Pumpkin seeds like cold sea blooms bring me dreams;
Ah, Pete,--too sweet to me,--My Pete, it seems
Love like a Pumpkin holds me in its thrall;
And overhead a writhen shadow gleams,--
Ah me, ah me, that pumpkins are so small!
This intense poesy thrilled the heavens, and it was with a sense of
relief to their throbbing souls that they listened to Mr. Bret Harte's
contribution:
Which I wish to remark,
That the lady was plain;
And for ways that are dark
And for tricks that are vain
She had predilections peculiar,
And drove Peter nearly insane.
Far off, anywhere,
She wandered each day;
And though Peter would swear,
The lady would stray;
And whenever he thought he had got her,
She was sure to be rambling away.
Said Peter, "My Wife,
Hereafter you dwell
For the rest of your life
In a big Pumpkin Shell."
He popped her in one that was handy,
And since then he's kept her quite well.
Which is why I remark,
Though the lady was plain,
For ways that are dark
And tricks that are vain
A husband is very peculiar,
And the same I am free to maintain.
Oscar Wilde, in a poetic fervor and a lily-like kimono, recited with
tremulous intensity this masterpiece of his own:
Oh, Peter! Pumpkin-fed and proud,
Ah me; ah me!
(Sweet squashes, mother!)
Thy woe knells like a stricken cloud;
(Ah me; ah me!
Hurroo, Hurree!)
Lo! vanisht like an anguisht wraith;
Ah me; ah me!
(Sweet squashes, mother!)
Wan hope a dolorous musing saith;
(Ah me; ah me!
Dum diddle dee!)
Hist! dare we soar? The Pumpkin Shell!
Ah me; ah me!
(Sweet squashes, mother!)
Fast and forever! Sooth, 'tis well.
(Ah me; ah me!
Faloodle dee!)
There was little to be said after this, so the meeting closed with a
solo by Lady Arthur Hill, sung with a truly touching touch:
In the pumpkin, oh, my darling,
Think not bitterly of me;
Though I went away in silence,
Though I couldn't set you free.
For my heart was filled with longing,
For another piece of pie;
It was best to leave you there, dear,
Best for you and best for I.
At Christmas the members of the Re-Echo Club voiced these pleasant
sentiments: