The Little Mock--
The Little Mock-man on the Stairs,
He mocks the music-box an' clock,
An' roller-sofy an' the chairs;
He mocks his Pa an' spec's he wears;
He mocks the man 'at picks the pears
An' plums an' peaches on the shares;
He mocks the monkeys an' the bears
On picture-bills, an' rips an' tears
'Em down,--an' mocks ist all he cares,
An' EVER'body EVER'wheres!_
MAMMY'S LULLABY
BY STRICKLAND W. GILLILAN
Sleep, mah li'l pigeon, don' yo' heah yo' mammy coo?
Sunset still a-shinin' in de wes';
Sky am full o' windehs an' de stahs am peepin' froo--
Eb'ryt'ing but mammy's lamb at res'.
Swing 'im to'ds de Eas'lan',
Swing 'im to'ds de Souf--
See dat dove a-comin' wif a olive in 'is mouf!
Angel hahps a-hummin',
Angel banjos strummin'--
Sleep, mah li'l pigeon, don' yo' heah yo' mammy coo?
Cricket fiddleh scrapin' off de rozzum f'um 'is bow,
Whippo'will a-mo'nin' on a lawg;
Moon ez pale ez hit kin be a-risin' mighty slow--
Stahtled at de bahkin' ob de dawg;
Swing de baby Eas'way,
Swing de baby Wes',
Swing 'im to'ds de Souflan' whah de melon grow de bes'!
Angel singers singin',
Angel bells a-ringin',
Sleep, mah li'l pigeon, don' yo' heah yo' mammy coo?
Eyelids des a-droopin' li'l loweh all de w'ile,
Undeh lip a-saggin' des a mite;
Li'l baby toofies showin' so't o' lak a smile,
Whiteh dan de snow, or des ez white.
Swing 'im to'ds de No'flan',
Swing 'im to'ds de Eas'--
Woolly cloud a-comin' fo' t' wrap 'im in 'is fleece!
Angel ban' a-playin'--
Whut dat music sayin'?
"Sleep, mah li'l pigeon, don' yo' heah yo' mammy coo?"
MY SWEETHEART
BY SAMUEL MINTURN PECK
Her height? Perhaps you'd deem her tall--
To be exact, just five feet seven.
Her arching feet are not too small;
Her gleaming eyes are bits of heaven.
Slim are her hands, yet not too wee--
I could not fancy useless fingers,
Her hands are all that hands should be,
And own a touch whose memory lingers.
The hue that lights her oval cheeks
Recalls the pink that tints a cherry;
Upon her chin a dimple speaks,
A disposition blithe and merry.
Her laughter ripples like a brook;
Its sound a heart of stone would soften.
Though sweetness shines in every look,
Her laugh is never loud, nor often.
Though golden locks have won renown
With bards, I never heed their raving;
The girl I love hath locks of brown,
Not tightly curled, but gently waving.
Her mouth?--Perhaps you'd term it large--
Is firmly molded, full and curving;
Her quiet lips are Cupid's charge,
But in the cause of truth unswerving.
Though little of her neck is seen,
That little is both smooth and sightly;
And fair as marble is its sheen
Above her bodice gleaming whitely.
Her nose is just the proper size,
Without a trace of upward turning.
Her shell-like ears are wee and wise,
The tongue of scandal ever spurning.
In mirth and woe her voice is low,
Her calm demeanor never fluttered;
Her every accent seems to go
Straight to one's heart as soon as uttered.
She ne'er coquets as others do;
Her tender heart would never let her.
Where does she dwell? I would I knew;
As yet, alas! I've never met her.
THE AUTO RUBAIYAT[5]
BY REGINALD WRIGHT KAUFFMAN
Move!--Or the Devil Red who puts to flight
Whate'er's before him, to the Left or Right,
Will toss you high as Heaven when he strikes
Your poor clay carcass with his master-might!
As the Cock crows the "Fiends" who stand before
The Starting-Point, amid the Stream's wild roar,
Shake hands, make wills, and duly are confess'd,
Lest, once departed, they return no more.
For whether towards Madrid or Washington,
Whether by steam or gasoline they run,
Pedestrians keep getting in their way,
Chauffeurs are being slaughtered one by one.
A new Fool's every minute born, you say;
Yes, but where speeds the Fool of Yesterday?
Beneath the Road he sleeps, the Autos roar
Close o'er his head, but can not thrill his clay.
Well, let him sleep! For what have ye to do
With him, who this or Anything pursue
So it take swiftness?--Let the Children scream,
Or Constables shout after--heed not you.
Oh ye who anti-auto laws would make
And still insist upon the silly brake,
Get in, and try a spin, and then you'll see
How many fines you will impose--and take!
Ah, my Beloved, fill the Tank that cheers,
Nor heed the Law's rebuke, the Rabble's tears,
Quick! For To-morrow you and I may be
Ourselves with Yesterday's Sev'n Thousand Years.
A pair of Goggles and a Cap, I trow,
A Stench, a Roar, and my Machine and Thou
Beside me, going ninety miles an hour--
Oh, Turnpike-road were Paradise enow!
Ah, Love, could we successfully conspire
Against this sorry World for our desire,
Would we not shatter it to bits without
So much of damage as a busted tire?
With Gasoline my fading Life provide,
And wash my Body in it when I've died,
And lay me, shrouded in my Cap and Cape,
By some not Autoless new Speedway's side.
Yon "Devil" that goes pricking o'er the Plain,
How oft hereafter will she go again!
How oft hereafter will she seek her prey?
But seek, alas, for one of us in vain!
And when, like her, O Love, you come to take
Your morning spin for Appetite's sweet sake,
And pass the spot where I lay buried, then,
In memory of me, fling wide the Brake!
[Footnote 5: Lippincott's Magazine.]
THE TWO LADIES
BY CAROLYN WELLS
Once on a Time there were Two Ladies at a Shop where Gorgeous and
Expensive Silks were temptingly displayed. "Only Six Dollars a Yard,
Madam," said the Shopman to One of the Ladies, as he held up the
Lustrous Breadths in those Tempting Fan-shaped Folds peculiar to
Shopmen.
The Lady hesitated, and looked Dubiously at the Silk, for she knew it
was Beyond her Means.
The Shopman Continued: "Very Cheap at the Price, and I have Only this
One Dress Pattern remaining. You will Take it? Yes? Certainly, I will
Send it at Once."
The Lady went away filled with Deep Regret because she had squandered
her Money so Foolishly, and wished she had been Firm in her Refusal to
buy the Goods.
The Other Lady saw a similar Silk. She felt it Between her Fingers,
Measured its Width with her Eye, and then said Impulsively, "Oh, That is
just What I Want. I will Take Twenty Yards."
No Sooner was the Silk cut off than the Lady felt Sharp Twinges of
Remorse, for she knew she must Pay for it with the Money she had Saved
Up for a new Dining-Room Carpet.
MORALS:
This Fable teaches that the Woman Who Deliberates Is Lost, and That We
Should Think Twice Before We Speak Once.
THE DIAMOND WEDDING
BY EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN
O Love! Love! Love! What times were those,
Long ere the age of belles and beaux,
And Brussels lace and silken hose,
When, in the green Arcadian close,
You married Psyche under the rose,
With only the grass for bedding!
Heart to heart, and hand to hand,
You followed Nature's sweet command,
Roaming lovingly through the land,
Nor sighed for a Diamond Wedding.
So have we read in classic Ovid,
How Hero watched for her belovèd,
Impassioned youth, Leander.
She was the fairest of the fair,
And wrapt him round with her golden hair,
Whenever he landed cold and bare,
With nothing to eat and nothing to wear,
And wetter than any gander;
For Love was Love, and better than money;
The slyer the theft, the sweeter the honey;
And kissing was clover, all the world over,
Wherever Cupid might wander.
So thousands of years have come and gone,
And still the moon is shining on,
Still Hymen's torch is lighted;
And hitherto, in this land of the West,
Most couples in love have thought it best
To follow the ancient way of the rest,
And quietly get united.
But now, True Love, you're growing old--
Bought and sold, with silver and gold,
Like a house, or a horse and carriage!
Midnight talks,
Moonlight walks,
The glance of the eye and sweetheart sigh,
The shadowy haunts, with no one by,
I do not wish to disparage;
But every kiss
Has a price for its bliss,
In the modern code of marriage;
And the compact sweet
Is not complete
Till the high contracting parties meet
Before the altar of Mammon;
And the bride must be led to a silver bower,
Where pearls and rubies fall in a shower
That would frighten Jupiter Ammon!
I need not tell
How it befell,
(Since Jenkins has told the story
Over and over and over again
In a style I can not hope to attain,
And covered himself with glory!)
How it befell, one summer's day,
The king of the Cubans strolled this way--
King January's his name, they say--
And fell in love with the Princess May,
The reigning belle of Manhattan;
Nor how he began to smirk and sue,
And dress as lovers who come to woo,
Or as Max Maretzek and Julien do,
When they sit full-bloomed in the ladies' view,
And flourish the wondrous baton.
He wasn't one of your Polish nobles,
Whose presence their country somehow troubles,
And so our cities receive them;
Nor one of your make-believe Spanish grandees,
Who ply our daughters with lies and candies
Until the poor girls believe them.
No, he was no such charlatan--
Count de Hoboken Flash-in-the-pan,
Full of gasconade and bravado--
But a regular, rich Don Rataplan,
Santa Claus de la Muscovado,
Señor Grandissimo Bastinado.
His was the rental of half Havana
And all Matanzas; and Santa Anna,
Rich as he was, could hardly hold
A candle to light the mines of gold
Our Cuban owned, choke-full of diggers;
And broad plantations, that, in round figures,
Were stocked with at least five thousand niggers!
"Gather ye rosebuds while ye may!"
The Señor swore to carry the day,
To capture the beautiful Princess May,
With his battery of treasure;
Velvet and lace she should not lack;
Tiffany, Haughwout, Ball & Black,
Genin and Stewart his suit should back,
And come and go at her pleasure;
Jet and lava--silver and gold--
Garnets--emeralds rare to behold--
Diamonds--sapphires--wealth untold--
All were hers, to have and to hold:
Enough to fill a peck measure!
He didn't bring all his forces on
At once, but like a crafty old Don,
Who many a heart had fought and won,
Kept bidding a little higher;
And every time he made his bid,
And what she said, and all they did--
'Twas written down,
For the good of the town,
By Jeems, of _The Daily Flyer_.
A coach and horses, you'd think, would buy
For the Don an easy victory;
But slowly our Princess yielded.
A diamond necklace caught her eye,
But a wreath of pearls first made her sigh.
She knew the worth of each maiden glance,
And, like young colts, that curvet and prance,
She led the Don a deuce of a dance,
In spite of the wealth he wielded.
She stood such a fire of silks and laces,
Jewels and gold dressing-cases,
And ruby brooches, and jets and pearls,
That every one of her dainty curls
Brought the price of a hundred common girls;
Folks thought the lass demented!
But at last a wonderful diamond ring,
An infant Kohinoor, did the thing,
And, sighing with love, or something the same,
(What's in a name?)
The Princess May consented.
Ring! ring the bells, and bring
The people to see the marrying!
Let the gaunt and hungry and ragged poor
Throng round the great cathedral door,
To wonder what all the hubbub's for,
And sometimes stupidly wonder
At so much sunshine and brightness which
Fall from the church upon the rich,
While the poor get all the thunder.
Ring, ring! merry bells, ring!
O fortunate few,
With letters blue,
Good for a seat and a nearer view!
Fortunate few, whom I dare not name;
Dilettanti! Créme de la Créme!
We commoners stood by the street façade,
And caught a glimpse of the cavalcade.
We saw the bride
In diamond pride,
With jeweled maidens to guard her side--
Six lustrous maidens in tarletan.
She led the van of the caravan;
Close behind her, her mother
(Dressed in gorgeous _moire antique_,
That told as plainly as words could speak,
She was more antique than the other)
Leaned on the arm of Don Rataplan,
Santa Claus de la Muscovado,
Señor Grandissimo Bastinado.
Happy mortal! fortunate man!
And Marquis of El Dorado!
In they swept, all riches and grace,
Silks and satins, jewels and lace;
In they swept from the dazzled sun,
And soon in the church the deed was done.
Three prelates stood on the chancel high:
A knot that gold and silver can buy,
Gold and silver may yet untie,
Unless it is tightly fastened;
What's worth doing at all's worth doing well,
And the sale of a young Manhattan belle
Is not to be pushed or hastened;
So two Very-Reverends graced the scene,
And the tall Archbishop stood between,
By prayer and fasting chastened;
The Pope himself would have come from Rome,
But Garibaldi kept him at home.
Haply those robed prelates thought
Their words were the power that tied the knot;
But another power that love-knot tied,
And I saw the chain round the neck of the bride--
A glistening, priceless, marvelous chain,
Coiled with diamonds again and again,
As befits a diamond wedding;
Yet still 'twas a chain, and I thought she knew it,
And half-way longed for the will to undo it,
By the secret tears she was shedding.
But isn't it odd to think, whenever
We all go through that terrible River--
Whose sluggish tide alone can sever
(The Archbishop says) the Church decree,
By floating one into Eternity
And leaving the other alive as ever--
As each wades through that ghastly stream,
The satins that rustle and gems that gleam,
Will grow pale and heavy, and sink away
To the noisome River's bottom-clay!
Then the costly bride and her maidens six,
Will shiver upon the banks of the Styx,
Quite as helpless as they were born--
Naked souls, and very forlorn;
The Princess, then, must shift for herself,
And lay her royalty on the shelf;
She, and the beautiful Empress, yonder,
Whose robes are now the wide world's wonder,
And even ourselves, and our dear little wives,
Who calico wear each morn of their lives,
And the sewing-girls, and _les chiffonniers_,
In rags and hunger--a gaunt array--
And all the grooms of the caravan--
Ay, even the great Don Rataplan
Santa Claus de la Muscavado
Señor Grandissimo Bastinado--
That gold-encrusted, fortunate man--
All will land in naked equality:
The lord of a ribboned principality
Will mourn the loss of his _cordon_;
Nothing to eat and nothing to wear
Will certainly be the fashion there!
Ten to one, and I'll go it alone;
Those most used to a rag and a bone,
Though here on earth they labor and groan,
Will stand it best, as they wade abreast
To the other side of Jordan.
AN ARKANSAS PLANTER
BY OPIE READ
Slowly and heavily the Major walked out upon the veranda. He stood upon
the steps leading down into the yard, and he saw Louise afar off
standing upon the river's yellow edge. She had thrown her hat upon the
sand, and she stood with her hands clasped upon her brown head. A wind
blew down the stream, and the water lapped at her feet. The Major looked
back into the library, at the door wherein Pennington had stood, and
sighed with relief upon finding that he was gone. He looked back toward
the river. The girl was walking along the shore, meditatively swinging
her hat. He stepped to the corner of the house, and, gazing down the
road, saw Pennington on a horse, now sitting straight, now bending low
over the horn of the saddle. The old gentleman had a habit of making a
sideward motion with his hand as if he would put all unpleasant thoughts
behind him, and now he made the motion not only once, but many times.
And it seemed that his thoughts would not obey him, for he became more
imperative in his pantomimic demand.
At one corner of the large yard, where the smooth ground broke off into
a steep slope to the river, there stood a small office built of brick.
It was the Major's executive chamber, and thither he directed his steps.
Inside this place his laugh was never heard; at the door his smile
always faded. In this commercial sanctuary were enforced the exactions
that made the plantation thrive. Outside, in the yard, in the "big
house," elsewhere under the sky, a plea of distress might moisten his
eyes and soften his heart to his own financial disadvantage, but under
the moss-grown shingles of the office all was business, hard,
uncompromising. It was told in the neighborhood that once, in this
inquisition of affairs, he demanded the last cent possessed by a widowed
woman, but that, while she was on her way home, he overtook her,
graciously returned the money and magnanimously tore to pieces a
mortgage that he held against her small estate.
Just as he entered the office there came across the yard a loud and
impatient voice. "Here, Bill, confound you, come and take this horse.
Don't you hear me, you idiot? You infernal niggers are getting to be so
no-account that the last one of you ought to be driven off the place.
Trot, confound you. Here, take this horse to the stable and feed him.
Where is the Major? In the office? The devil he is."
Toward the office slowly strode old Gideon Batts, fanning himself with
his white slouch hat. He was short, fat, and bald; he was bow-legged
with a comical squat; his eyes stuck out like the eyes of a swamp frog;
his nose was enormous, shapeless, and red. To the Major's family he
traced the dimmest line of kinship. During twenty years he had operated
a small plantation that belonged to the Major, and he was always at
least six years behind with his rent. He had married the widow Martin,
and afterward swore that he had been disgracefully deceived by her, that
he had expected much but had found her moneyless; and after this he had
but small faith in woman. His wife died and he went into contented
mourning, and out of gratitude to his satisfied melancholy, swore that
he would pay his rent, but failed. Upon the Major he held a strong hold,
and this was a puzzle to his neighbors. Their characters stood at
fantastic and whimsical variance; one never in debt, the other never out
of debt; one clamped by honor, the other feeling not its restraining
pinch. But together they would ride abroad, laughing along the road. To
Mrs. Cranceford old Gid was a pest. With the shrewd digs of a woman, the
blood-letting side stabs of her sex, she had often shown her disapproval
of the strong favor in which the Major held him; she vowed that her
husband had gathered many an oath from Gid's swollen store of execration
(when, in truth, Gid had been an apt pupil under the Major), and she had
hoped that the Major's attachment to the church would of necessity free
him from the humiliating association with the old sinner, but it did
not, for they continued to ride abroad, laughing along the road.
Like a skittish horse old Gid shied at the office door. Once he had
crossed that threshold and it had cost him a crop of cotton.
"How are you, John?" was Gid's salutation as he edged off, still fanning
himself.
"How are you, sir?" was the Major's stiff recognition of the fact that
Gid was on earth.
"Getting hotter, I believe, John."
"I presume it is, sir." The Major sat with his elbow resting on a desk,
and about him were stacked threatening bundles of papers; and old Gid
knew that in those commercial romances he himself was a familiar
character.
"Are you busy, John?"
"Yes, but you may come in."
"No, I thank you. Don't believe I've got time."
"Then take time. I want to talk to you. Come in."
"No, not to-day, John. Fact is I'm not feeling very well. Head's all
stopped up with a cold, and these summer colds are awful, I tell you.
It was a summer cold that took my father off."
"How's your cotton in that low strip along the bayou?"
"Tolerable, John; tolerable."
"Come in. I want to talk to you about it."
"Don't believe I can stand the air in there, John. Head all stopped up.
Don't believe I'm going to live very long."
"Nonsense. You are as strong as a buck."
"You may think so, John, but I'm not. I thought father was strong, too,
but a summer cold got him. I am getting along in years, John, and I find
that I have to take care of myself. But if you really want to talk to me
about that piece of cotton, come out where it's cool."
The Major shoved back his papers and arose, but hesitated; and Gid stood
looking on, fanning himself. The Major stepped out and Gid's face was
split asunder with a broad smile.
"I gad. I've been up town and had a set-to with old Baucum and the rest
of them. Pulled up fifty winner at poker and jumped. Devilish glad to
see you; miss you every minute of the time I'm away. Let's go over here
and sit down on that bench."
They walked toward a bench under a live-oak tree, and upon Gid's
shoulder the Major's hand affectionately rested. They halted to laugh,
and old Gid shoved the Major away from him, then seized him and drew him
back. They sat down, still laughing, but suddenly the Major became
serious.
"Gid, I'm in trouble," he said.
"Nonsense, my boy, there is no such thing as trouble. Throw it off. Look
at me. I've had enough of what the world calls trouble to kill a dozen
ordinary men, but just look at me--getting stronger every day. Throw it
off. What is it anyway?"
"Louise declares that she is going to marry Pennington."
"What!" old Gid exclaimed, turning with a bouncing flounce and looking
straight at the Major. "Marry Pennington! Why, she shan't, John. That's
all there is of it. We object and that settles it. Why, what the deuce
can she be thinking about?"
"Thinking about him," the Major answered.
"Yes, but she must quit it. Why, it's outrageous for as sensible a girl
as she is to think of marrying that fellow. You leave it to me; hear
what I said? Leave it to me."
This suggested shift of responsibility did not remove the shadow of
sadness that had fallen across the Major's countenance.
"You leave it to me and I'll give her a talk she'll not forget. I'll
make her understand that she's a queen, and a woman is pretty devilish
skittish about marrying anybody when you convince her that she's a
queen. What does your wife say about it?"
"She hasn't said anything. She's out visiting and I haven't seen her
since Louise told me of her determination to marry him."
"Don't say determination, John. Say foolish notion. But it's all right."
"No, it's not all right."
"What, have you failed to trust me? Is it possible that you have lost
faith in me? Don't do that, John, for if you do it will be a never
failing source of regret. You don't seem to remember what my powers of
persuasion have accomplished in the past. When I was in the legislature,
chairman of the Committee on County and County Lines, what did my
protest do? It kept them from cutting off a ten-foot strip of this
county and adding it to Jefferson. You must remember those things,
John, for in the factors of persuasion lie the shaping of human life.
I've been riding in the hot sun and I think that a mint julep would hit
me now just about where I live. Say, there, Bill, bring us some mint,
sugar and whisky. And cold water, mind you."
"Ah," said old Gideon, sipping his scented drink, "virtue may become
wearisome, and we may gape during the most fervent prayer, but I gad,
John, there is always the freshness of youth in a mint julep. Pour just
a few more drops of liquor into mine, if you please--want it to rassle
me a trifle, you know. Recollect those come-all ye songs we used to
sing, going down the river? Remember the time I snatched the sword out
of my cane and lunged at a horse trader from Tennessee? Scoundrel
grabbed it and broke it off and it was all I could do to keep him from
establishing a close and intimate relationship with me. Great old days,
John; and I gad, they'll never come again."
"I remember it all, Gid, and it was along there that you fell in love
with a woman that lived at Mortimer's Bend."
"Easy, now, John. A trifle more liquor, if you please. Thank you. Yes, I
used to call her the wild plum. Sweet thing, and I had no idea that she
was married until her lout of a husband came down to the landing with a
double-barrel gun. Ah, Lord, if she had been single and worth money I
could have made her very happy. Fate hasn't always been my friend,
John."
"Possibly not, Gid, but you know that fate to be just should divide her
favors, and this time she leaned toward the woman."
"Slow, John. I gad, there's your wife."
A carriage drew up at the yard gate and a woman stepped out. She did not
go into the house, but seeing the Major, came toward him. She was tall,
with large black eyes and very gray hair. In her step was suggested the
pride of an old Kentucky family, belles, judges and generals. She smiled
at the Major and bowed stiffly at old Gid. The two men arose.
"Thank you, I don't care to sit down," she said. "Where is Louise?"
"I saw her down by the river just now," the Major answered.
"I wish to see her at once," said his wife.
"Shall I go and call her, madam?" Gid asked.
She gave him a look of surprise and answered: "No, I thank you."