And the dates of the Wars of the Roses,
And the reasons of things—why the Indians wore rings
In their red aboriginal noses;
Why Shakspere was wrong in his grammar,
And the meaning of Emerson’s BRAHMA,
And she went chipping rocks with a little black box
And a small geological hammer.
She had views upon co-education,
And the principal needs of the nation,
And her glasses were blue, and the number she knew
Of the stars in each bright constellation.
And she wrote with a handwriting clerky,
And she talked with an emphasis jerky,
And she painted on tiles in the sweetest of styles,
But she didn’t know chicken from turkey!
THE RHYME OF THE HERCULES CLUB.
BEING A BALLAD OF TO-DAY, DESIGNED TO ILLUSTRATE THE PRINCIPLE OF
REACTION, AND TO SET FORTH HOW THERE MAY BE TOO MUCH OF AN EXCELLENT
THING.
There was once a young man of the medium size,
Who, by keeping a ledger, himself kept likewise.
In the matter of lunch he’d a leaning to pies,
And his chronic dyspepsia will hence not surprise;
And his friends often told him, with tears in their eyes,
Which they did not disguise, that a person who tries
To live without exercise generally dies,
And declared, for the sake of his family ties,
He should enter the Hercules Club.
Tom Box and Dick Dumbell would suasively say,
If they met him by chance in the roar of Broadway,
“It’s bad for a fellow, all work and no play;
Come, let us propose you! You’ll find it will pay
To belong to the Hercules Club!”
And he yielded at last, and they put up his name,
Which was found without blame; and they put down the same
In a roll-book tremendous; and straight he became
A Samson, regarding his tame past with shame;
Called for “Beef, lean and rare!” and cut off all his hair,
Had his shoulders constructed abnormally square,
And walked out with an air that made people declare,
“_He_ belongs to the Hercules Club!”
And he often remarked, in original way:
“It’s bad for a fellow, all work and no play;
Without recreation, sir, life doesn’t pay!
And I for my part am most happy to say
I belong to the Hercules Club.”
And frequently during a very hot “spell,”
In thick woolen garments clad closely and well,
“Reducing,”—for he was resolved to excel,—
rowed in the sun at full speed, in a shell
That belonged to the Hercules Club.
And for weeks, while the dew on the racing-track lay,
He ran before breakfast a half mile a day,
Improving his style and increasing his “stay”;
And was first at the finish, and fainted away,
At the games of the Hercules Club.
Six nights in succession he sat up to pore
“The Laws of Athletics” devotedly o’er
(Which number ten thousand and seventy-four),
With a view to proposing a very few more
In a speech to the Hercules Club.
And his coat upon festal occasions was gay
With medals on medals, marked “H. A. A. A.,”[1]
With a motto in Greek (which, my lore to display,
Means “Pleasure is business”), a splendid array
Of the spoils of the Hercules Club.
But acquaintances not of the muscular kind
Began to observe that his brow was deep-lined,
Too brilliant his eye, and to wander inclined;
He appeared, in a word (early English), “fore-pined”;
And one morning his ledger and desk he resigned,
Explaining, “I can’t have my health undermined
By this ‘demnition grind’; and I’m getting behind
In my duties as Captain” (an office defined,
Page hundred and two, in the by-laws that bind
With red tape the great Hercules Club).
And he further remarked, in most serious way:
“Give it up, did you say? ’Twill be frigid, that day![2]
Why, without relaxation, sir, life wouldn’t pay!
And I, for my part, will remain till I’m gray
On the roll of the Hercules Club!”
You perceive, gentle reader, the rub.
Is it nobler to suffer those arrows and slings
Lack of exercise brings—or take clubs, and let things
Unconnected with matters athletic take wings;
Till all interests beside, like the Arabs, shall glide
From the landscape of life, once a plain free and wide,
But now fenced for the “Games” which we lightly began,
Grown our serious aims and the chief end of Man?
There’s an aureate mean these two courses between,
But I humbly submit that it seldom is seen,
With all proper respect for that organization,
Of benevolent purpose and high reputation,
The excellent Hercules Club!
FOOTNOTES
[1] “H. A. A. A.”: Hercules Amateur Athletic Association.
[2] Frigid day, or day of low temperature: A singular idiom of the
American language, expressing grave improbability.
THE BALLAD OF CASSANDRA BROWN.
Though I met her in the summer, when one’s heart lies round at ease,
As it were in tennis costume, and a man’s not hard to please,
Yet I think at any season to have met her was to love,
While her tones, unspoiled, unstudied, had the softness of the dove.
At request she read us poems in a nook among the pines,
And her artless voice lent music to the least melodious lines;
Though she lowered her shadowing lashes, in an earnest reader’s wise,
Yet we caught blue gracious glimpses of the heavens that were her eyes.
As in paradise I listened. Ah, I did not understand
That a little cloud, no larger than the average human hand,
Might, as stated oft in fiction, spread into a sable pall,
When she said that she should study Elocution in the fall!
I admit her earliest efforts were not in the Ercles vein;
She began with, “Lit-tle Maaybel, with her faayce against the paayne,
And the beacon-light a-trrremble,”—which although it made me wince,
Is a thing of cheerful nature to the things she’s rendered since.
Having learned the Soulful Quiver, she acquired the Melting Mo-o-an,
And the way she gave “Young Grayhead,” would have liquefied a stone.
Then the Sanguinary Tragic did her energies employ,
And she tore my taste to tatters when she slew “The Polish Boy.”
It’s not pleasant for a fellow when the jewel of his soul
Wades through slaughter on the carpet, while her orbs in frenzy roll;
What was I that I should murmur? Yet it gave me grievous pain
That she rose in social gatherings and Searched among the Slain.
I was forced to look upon her, in my desperation dumb,
Knowing well that when her awful opportunity was come
She would give us battle, murder, sudden death at very least,
As a skeleton of warning, and a blight upon the feast.
Once, ah! once I fell a-dreaming; some one played a polonaise
I associated strongly with those happier August days;
And I mused, “I’ll speak this evening,” recent pangs forgotten quite.
Sudden shrilled a scream of anguish: “Curfew SHALL not ring to-night!”
Ah, that sound was as a curfew, quenching rosy warm romance:
Were it safe to wed a woman one so oft would wish in France?
Oh, as she “cull-imbed” that ladder, swift my mounting hope came down.
I am still a single cynic; she is still Cassandra Brown!
—_Coroebus Green._
THE SWEET O’ THE YEAR.
This trifle may derive interest from the music, by MR. E. C. PHELPS, in
_Scribner’s Monthly_ for August, 1880.
ACT I.
SCENE.—A LOWLY COT.
TENANT (_Tenor_).
TENANT’S WIFE (_Soprano_).
TENANT’S MOTHER-IN-LAW (_Contralto_).
LANDLORD (_Basso_).
TENOR SOLO.
How happy is our lot,
Beneath our vines and fig-trees,
In this suburban spot,
Among so many big trees!
Our landlord’s very kind,
His speech is mild and gentle,
He never was inclined
To go and raise the rental.
TRIO.
How happy is our lot
Beneath our vines and fig-trees,
In this suburban spot,
Among so many big trees;
How happy is our lot!
How happy is our lot!
_Enter Landlord._ BASSO.
How do you do?
_Aside._ I’ll try a few devices;
I’ve paid a five-cent fare,
To see if my premises
Were wanting much repair.
TENOR.
Sir, the whole house neat and nice is,
And requires no extra care.
BASSO.
_Aside._ Got him there!
_Direct._ This is indeed a lovely spot.
TENOR.
Beyond compare.
BASSO.
_Aside._ Got him there!
_Direct._ I think you never find it hot?
TENOR.
Fine cool air.
BASSO.
_Aside._ Got him there!
_Direct._ Handy to the cars and boats?
TENOR.
Pretty fair.
BASSO.
_Aside._ Got him there!
_Direct._ Far removed from geese and goats?
TENOR.
So we air.
BASSO.
_Aside._ Got him there!
Think I’ve got him everywhere.
_Direct._ Bless you! after so much praise
I shall really have to raise.
_Mother-in-law._ CONTRALTO.
_To Tenor._ Oh, oh, oh!
No, no, no!
Have you the feelings of a man
To stand such wicked imposition?
An old house built on such a plan,
And in the very worst condition.
SOPRANO.
The paper’s hanging on the wall.
CONTRALTO.
The plaster’s tumbling from the ceiling.
SOPRANO.
The front piazza is liable to fall.
CONTRALTO.
Oh, are you a man of any feeling?
TENOR.
I won’t pay!
BASSO.
First of May.
INTERMISSION—_Agent heard without tacking up bill._
ACT II.
ENTER LEFT—_Chorus of Feminine House-Seekers and Chorus of Masculine
House-Seekers, waving permits._
FULL CHORUS.
I want to see⸺
TENOR.
Oh, certainly!
Be kind enough to follow me.
FEMALE CHORUS.
This parlor’s rather nice;
This parlor’s rather small;
Are you troubled with rats and mice?
Will the landlord paint the wall?
MALE CHORUS.
Does the roof leak when it’s clear?
FEMALE CHORUS.
Are the bedrooms tinted blue?
How long have you lived here?
Will the range cook oyster stew?
_Exeunt, R._
FULL CHORUS (_re-entering, R._)
It wouldn’t do!
FEMALE CHORUS.
It’s warm!
MALE CHORUS.
It’s cold!
FEMALE CHORUS.
It’s quite too new!
MALE CHORUS.
It’s quite too old!
FULL CHORUS.
I wanted gas!
I wanted grass!
We all expected fine plate-glass!
And shelves for cheese!
And orange trees!
And beds for raising strawberries!
I dwell in a marble hall,
And I couldn’t make it do;
And I don’t see how you live at all;
And I’m much obliged to you.
THE TENDER HEART.
She gazed upon the burnished brace
Of plump ruffed grouse he showed with pride
Angelic grief was in her face:
“How _could_ you do it, dear?” she sighed.
“The poor, pathetic, moveless wings!
The songs all hushed—oh, cruel shame!”
Said he, “The partridge never sings.”
Said she, “The sin is quite the same.
“You men are savage through and through.
A boy is always bringing in
Some string of bird’s eggs, white and blue,
Or butterfly upon a pin.
The angle-worm in anguish dies,
Impaled, the pretty trout to tease⸺”
“My own, I fish for trout with flies⸺”
“Don’t wander from the question, please!”
She quoted Burns’s “Wounded Hare,”
And certain burning lines of Blake’s,
And Ruskin on the fowls of air,
And Coleridge on the water-snakes.
At Emerson’s “Forbearance” he
Began to feel his will benumbed;
At Browning’s “Donald” utterly
His soul surrendered and succumbed.
“Oh, gentlest of all gentle girls,”
He thought, “beneath the blessed sun!”
He saw her lashes hung with pearls,
And swore to give away his gun.
She smiled to find her point was gained,
And went, with happy parting words
(He subsequently ascertained),
To trim her hat with humming-birds.
—So good night unto you all.
Give me your hands, if we be friends,
And Robin shall restore amends.
_A Midsummer Night’s Dream._