If a man who turnips cries,
Cry not when his father dies,
'Tis a proof that he would rather
Have a turnip than a father.
And indeed, among our best writers there are few who have not
dropped into nonsense or semi-nonsense at one time or another.
A familiar bit of nonsense prose is by S. Foote, and it is said that
Charles Macklin used to recite it with great gusto:
"She went into the garden to cut a cabbage-leaf to make
an apple-pie, and at the same time a great she-bear coming
up the street, pops its head into the shop. 'What, no
soap?' so he died. She imprudently married the barber,
and there were present the Pickaninnies, the Joblilies, the
Gayrulies, and the Grand Panjandrum himself with the little
round button on top, and they all fell to playing
catch-as-catch-can
till the gunpowder ran out at the heels of their
boots."
[Transcriber's note: The above paragraph is not an excerpt from a
longer work, but is complete as it stands.]
An old nonsense verse attributed to an Oxford student, is the well
known:
A centipede was happy quite,
Until a frog in fun
Said, "Pray, which leg comes after which?"
This raised her mind to such a pitch,
She lay distracted in the ditch
Considering how to run.
So far as we know, Kipling has never printed anything which can be
called nonsense verse, but it is doubtless only a question of time
when that branch shall be added to his versatility. His "Just So"
stories are capital nonsense prose, and the following rhyme proves
him guilty of at least one Limerick:
There was a small boy of Quebec,
Who was buried in snow to his neck;
When they said, "Are you friz?"
He replied, "Yes, I is--
But we don't call this cold in Quebec."
Among living authors, one who has written a great amount of good
nonsense is Mr. Gelett Burgess, late editor of _The Lark_.
According to Mr. Burgess' own statement, the test of nonsense is its
quotability, and his work stands this test admirably, for what
absurd rhyme ever attained such popularity as his "Purple Cow"? This
was first printed in _The Lark_, a paper published in San
Francisco for two years, the only periodical of any merit that has
ever made intelligent nonsense its special feature.
Another of the most talented nonsense writers of to-day is Mr. Oliver
Herford. It is a pity, however, to reproduce his verse without his
illustrations, for as nonsense these are as admirable as the text.
But the greater part of Mr. Herford's work belongs to the realm
of pure fancy, and though of a whimsical delicacy often equal to
Lewis Carroll's, it is rarely sheer nonsense.
As a proof that good nonsense is by no means an easy achievement,
attention is called to a recent competition inaugurated by the
London _Academy_.
Nonsense rhymes similar to those quoted from _The Lark_ were asked
for, and though many were received, it is stated that no brilliant
results were among them.
The prize was awarded to this weak and uninteresting specimen:
"If half the road was made of jam,
The other half of bread,
How very nice my walks would be,"
The greedy infant said.
These two were also offered by competitors:
I love to stand upon my head
And think of things sublime
Until my mother interrupts
And says it's dinner-time.
A lobster wooed a lady crab,
And kissed her lovely face.
"Upon my sole," the crabbess cried,
"I wish you'd mind your plaice!"
Let us, then, give Nonsense its place among the divisions of Humor,
and though we cannot reduce it to an exact science, let us
acknowledge it as a fine art.