It was a gallant farmer lad
Enlisted in the navy.
"Give me," said he, "the deep blue sea,
The ocean wide and wavy!"
A sailor's uniform he'd don,
And never would he doff it.
He packed his grip, and soon was on
His way to Captain Moffett.
In cap of white and coat of blue
He labored for the nation,
A member of the salty crew
That worked the Naval Station.
He soon became the best of tars,
A seaman more than able,
By sweeping streets, and driving cars,
And waiting on the table.
He guarded gates, and shoveled snow,
And worked upon the highway.
"_All_ lads," said he, "should plough the sea,
And would if I had _my_ way."
Week-end he took a trolley car,
And to the city hied him,
Alongside of another tar
Who offered for to guide him.
The train rolled o'er a trestle high,
The river ran below him.
"Well, I'll be blamed!" our tar exclaimed,
And grabbed his pal to show him.
"Yes, dash my weeping eyes!" he cried.
"That's water, sure, by gravy!
The first blue water I have spied
Since joining of the navy!"
* * *
Now, "landsmen all," the moral's plain:
Our navy still is arming,
And if you'd plough the well known main,
You'd best begin by farming.
If you would head a tossing prow
Among our navigators,
Get up at morn and milk the cow,
And yeo-heave-ho the 'taters.
Do up your chores, and do 'em brown,
And learn to drive a flivver;
And some day, when you go to town,
You'll see the raging river.
* * *
The speaker of the House of Commons, who, "trembling slightly with
emotion," declared the sitting suspended, needs in his business the calm
of the late Fred Hall. While Mr. Hall was city editor of this journal of
civilization an irate subscriber came in and mixed it with a reporter.
Mr. Hall approached the pair, who were rolling on the floor, and,
peering near-sightedly at them, addressed the reporter: "Mr. Smith, when
you have finished with this gentleman, there is a meeting at the Fourth
Methodist church which I should like to have you cover."
* * *
In his informing and stimulating collection of essays, "On Contemporary
Literature," recently published, Mr. Stuart P. Sherman squanders an
entire chapter on Theodore Dreiser. It seems to us that he might have
covered the ground and saved most of his space by quoting a single
sentence from Anatole France, who, referring to Zola, wrote: "He has no
taste, and I have come to believe that want of taste is that mysterious
sin of which the Scripture speaks, the greatest of sins, the only one
which will not be forgiven."
* * *
"What is art?" asked jesting Pilate. And before he could beat it for his
chariot someone answered: "Art is a pitcher that you can't pour anything
out of."
* * *
It is much easier to die than it is to take a vacation. A man who is
summoned to his last long voyage may set his house in order in an hour:
a few words, written or dictated, will dispose of his possessions, and
his heirs will gladly attend to the details. This done, he may fold his
hands on his chest and depart this vexatious life in peace.
* * *
It is quite another matter to prepare for a few weeks away from town.
There are bills to be paid; the iceman and the milkman and the
laundryman must be choked off, and the daily paper restrained from
littering the doorstep. There is hair to be cut, and teeth to be
tinkered, and so on. In short, it takes days to stop the machinery of
living for a fortnight, and days to start it going again. But, my dear,
one must have a change.
* * *