"Let's go to bed," says Sleepy Head,
"Tarry awhile," says Slow;
"Put on the pot," says Greedy Gut,
"We'll sup before we go."
These lines the observant student of nursery literature will perceive
are satirical. Was there ever a poet who was not satirical? How could he
be a genius and not be able to point out the folly he sees around him
and comment upon it. In this case, the poor poet,--who lived in a
roseate cloud-land of his own, not desiring such mundane things as sleep
and food, was undoubtedly troubled and plagued to death by having
brothers and sisters who were of the earth, earthy; and who never
neglected on opportunity to laugh at his poems; to squirt water on him
when in the heavenly mood, his eyes in frenzy rolling; to put spiders
down his back; to stick pins in his elbows when writing; or upset his
inkstand.
Fine natures always have a deal to bear, in this world, from the coarse,
unfeeling natures that cannot appreciate their delicacy; and this one
had more than his share.
Many a time has he been goaded to frenzy by the cruel sneers and jokes
of those who should have been proud of his talents; and rushed with
wild-eyed eagerness down to the gentle frog pond, intending there to
bury his sorrows beneath its glassy surface. He saw in imagination the
grief-stricken faces of those cruel ones as they gazed upon his cold
corpus, with his damp locks clinging to his noble brow, the green slimy
weeds clasped in his pale hands, and the mud oozing from his pockets and
the legs of his pants; and he gloried in the remorse and anguish they
would feel when they knew that the Poet of the family was gone forever.
All this he pictured as he stood on the bank, and, while thinking, the
desire to plunge in grew smaller by degrees and beautifully less, till
at last it vanished entirely, and he concluded he had better go home,
finish his book first and drown himself afterwards, if necessary. It
would make much more stir in the world, and his name and works might
live forever.
A happy thought strikes him as he slowly meanders homeward. He would
have revenge. He would punish these wretches by handing down--to
posterity their peculiarities. He would put it in verse and have it
printed in his book, and then they'd see that even the gentle worm could
turn and sting.
Ah! blessed thought. He flies to his garret bedroom, seizes his
goose-quill and paper, and sits down. What shall he write about? He
nibbles the feather end of his pen, plunges the point into the ink,
looks at it intently to see if he has hooked up an idea, sees none, and
falls to nibbling again. Ah! now he has it. There is TOM, the
dunderhead, who is always sleepy and he will put that down about him.
Squaring his shoulders, he writes:
"Let's go to bed," says Sleepy Head.
Gleefully he rubs his hands. Won't that cut TOM. Ah! Ha! I guess TOM
won't say much more about staring at the moon. Now for DICK, the old
stupid. What shall he say about him? The end of the pen diminishes
slowly but surely, and then he writes:
"Tarry awhile," says Slow.
That will answer for DICK. Now let him give HARRY something scorching,
withering, and cutting--so that he'll never open his mouth again unless
it is to put something in it. Oh, that is it, he is always hungry--rub
him on that. He thinks intently. Determination shows in every line of
his face; the pen is almost gone only an inch remains, and then the Poet
masters his subject. He has got the last two lines.
"Put on the pot," says Greedy Gut,
"We'll sup before we go."
He throws down the stump of the pen and bounces up. His object in life
is accomplished; he is master of the situation, now, and holds the trump
card. See the quiet smile' and knowing look as he folds the paper up,
and thrusts it into his pocket. He is going down-stairs to read it to
the family. Now is the time for sweet revenge and for the overthrow of
those Philistines, his brothers. He descends slowly, like an avenging
angel, enters the room, and--gentle reader, imagine the rest.
* * * * *
Masculine or Feminine?
It now seems that the new and terrible fagot-gun used in the French army
is to be spoken of in the feminine gender--_mitrailleuse_ instead of
_mitrailleur_, as hitherto spelt by correspondents. That a virago is
sometimes termed a "spit-fire" we all know, but that is hardly reason
enough to excuse the French for such a lapse of gallantry as calling a
thunderous and fatal implement of war by a soft feminine name. Let them
stick to _mitrailleur_. Yet we would not rashly throw the other word
away. _Mitrailleuse_ would be a capital acquisition to the English
language, and very handy for any man having a vixen of a wife, with no
nice pet name convenient with which to conciliate her.
* * * * *
A Ridiculous Rub-a-dub.
A quiet gentleman who occupies lodgings immediately opposite one of the
city armories, writes to us asking whether the drum corps that practice
there two or three evenings in the week should not be supplied with
noiseless drums, as PUNCHINELLO has suggested regarding the street
organs. PUNCHINELLO thinks the suggestion a good one. He would like to
see the beating of drums after night-fall abolished altogether In fact,
it is the only kind of Dead Beat to which he would lend his countenance.
* * * * *
A Clear Case.
Some wiseacre has been trying to demonstrate, through the public press,
that POE did not write "The Raven."
The man must be a Raven lunatic.
* * * * *