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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems for Pale People, by Edwin C. Ranck
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Poems for Pale People
+       A Volume of Verse
+
+Author: Edwin C. Ranck
+
+Release Date: October 9, 2008 [EBook #26864]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS FOR PALE PEOPLE ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by David Garcia and the Online Distributed
+Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was
+produced from images generously made available by The
+Kentuckiana Digital Library)
+
+
+
+
+
+
+Poems for Pale People
+
+A Volume of Verse
+
+
+
+By
+
+Edwin C. Ranck
+
+
+
+Humanity Printing and Publishing Co.
+St. Louis, Mo.
+
+Copyrighted 1906 by
+EDWIN C. RANCK
+
+
+
+
+PREFACE
+
+
+_This little volume was written for no reason on earth and with no
+earthly reason. It just simply happened, on the principle, I suppose
+that "murder will out." Murder is a bad thing and so are nonsense
+rhymes. There is often a valid excuse for murder; there is none for
+nonsense rhymes. They seem to be a necessary evil to be classed with
+smallpox, chicken-pox, yellow fever and other irruptive diseases. They
+are also on the order of the boomerang and eventually rebound and
+inflict much suffering on the unlucky verse-slinger. So you see
+nonsense, like a little learning is a dangerous thing and should be
+handled with as much care as the shotgun which is never known to be
+loaded._
+
+_A man who writes nonsense may become in time a big gun. But this is
+rare; more often he becomes a small bore. This appears paradoxical and
+will probably require thinking over, but the more you think it over the
+less you will understand. This is true of parlor magic. It is also true
+of the magazine poets. It really never pays to think. Thinking is too
+much like work. After reading these rhymes you will not think that the
+writer ever did think, which after all is the right way to think._
+
+_When Dryden wrote "Alexander's Feast" he modestly stated that it was
+the grandest poem ever written. Mr. Dryden evidently believed this or
+he wouldn't have said so. But then every one did not agree with Mr.
+Dryden. Now I am going one step further and will positively state that
+the writer of this volume is the greatest poetical genius who has not
+yet died in infancy._
+
+_This is an astounding statement but it can be corroborated by admiring
+friends, for the writer is like a certain brand of children's food in
+that he is advertised by his loving friends._
+
+_Speaking of "Alexander's Feast" it simply cannot be compared to any
+one of the finished, poetic gems in this collection because it is so
+utterly different. The difference is what made Dryden famous. But
+comparisons are odious, and Mr. Dryden has been dead several years._
+
+_"But what," you may ask, "is the object of nonsense verse?" Most
+assuredly to make one laugh. That masterpiece of nonsense "Alice In
+Wonderland" and its companion volume "Through The Looking Class" are
+absurd books, but their very absurdity is what appeals to us most.
+Their author, Mr. Lewis Carroll was, in private life a very sober
+gentleman (at least we hope so). Nonsense is the salt of life with
+which we season the dry food of everyday cooking._
+
+    _"A little nonsense now and then
+      Is relished by the wisest men."_
+
+_Even serious old Longfellow had this feeling in his bones when he
+wrote the immortal lines which all of us recall from childhood:_
+
+    _"There was a little girl
+      And she had a little curl
+    Which hung way down on her forehead;
+      And when she was good,
+    She was very good indeed,
+      But when she was bad, she was horrid."_
+
+_This is nonsense pure and simple and even the most ardent admirers of
+Mr. Longfellow must, when they try to make "forehead" and "horrid"
+rhyme, admit that it was very poor verse for the author of
+"Evangeline."_
+
+_Bret Harte flew off at a tangent when he wrote about "Ah Sin, The
+Chinaman," a nonsense poem that gave "Bill Nye" his pseudonym. Oliver
+Wendell Holmes wrote "The Wonderful One-Hoss Shay." Rudyard Kipling is
+often "caught with the goods on him" and Mark Twain wrote an "Ode to
+Stephen Dowling Botts."_
+
+_And Great Scott! I almost forgot that even such a gentle, domestic
+creature as the cow has been the unconscious inspiration of much
+nonsense and has doubtless often chewed the bitter cud of reflection in
+deploring her undesired popularity. First she was forced (very much
+against her will, no doubt) to jump over the moon to the undignified
+strains of "Hey Diddle, Diddle." Then, just when beginning to breathe
+easily again after that astounding performance, Gelett Burgess came
+along and gave her more notoriety by raising the question as to whether
+there was such a thing as a "purple cow." And even today in many of the
+rural districts there are old farmers who never heard of Burgess and
+his "purple cow" who will tell you solemnly that "there is a cow of a
+sort of purplish color." Which goes to prove that after all nonsense is
+only sense plus--NON._
+
+
+
+
+The poems in this collection have appeared from time to time in The
+Kentucky Post, The Cincinnati Post, The Cincinnati Commercial Tribune,
+Humanity and The Valley Magazine.
+
+
+
+
+    WHY THE MOLE IS BLIND.
+
+
+    In days gone by, when cows could fly
+      And goblins rode on bears;
+    When fairies danced upon the green
+      And giants moped in lairs,
+    There lived alone upon a shelf
+      A tinsie, winsie little elf.
+
+    Just when the stars came out at night
+      And moonbeams filled the earth with light,
+    Down from his perch this little elf
+      Would jump and wander by himself.
+    He wore a pair of little wings
+      Tied in their place by golden strings.
+
+    One day he took a kind of notion
+      To take a trip upon the ocean.
+    He combed his hair and washed his face
+      And put his little wings in place,
+    Then from his shelf he softly stole
+      And went to see his friend the mole
+    Who gave to him a pea-green boat
+      And guaranteed that it would float.
+
+    A funny thing about this boat
+      'Twas patterned from a ten-pound note.
+    The little elf was greatly pleased
+      And laughed until he sneezed and sneezed;
+    He launched his boat upon the sea
+      And kicked his little heels in glee.
+
+    The mole looked on in glad surprise
+      (For in those days all moles had eyes.)
+    He shouted out a loud farewell
+      As the little row-boat rose and fell.
+    The elf picked up a golden oar
+      And soon lost sight of mole and shore.
+
+    The elf rowed out for quite a way
+      And in the waves did sport and play,
+    Until at length the sun sank low
+      And then he thought it time to go.
+    Now just as luck would have it then
+      A prowling sea gull left his den.
+
+    The savage sea gull loudly laughed
+      To see an elf in such a craft,
+    And swooping down upon the water
+      He did a thing he hadn't oughter,
+    For with his strong and sturdy beak
+      He caused the boat to spring a leak.
+
+    He said he longed for a little change
+      And the bank-note boat was just in range;
+    The poor young elf gave one big holler
+      Just as the sea gull made a swallow
+    (And this is strange indeed to follow
+      For a gull himself is just a swallow.)
+
+    The faithful mole heard this loud yell
+      And rushed down to the shore pell-mell.
+    Alas, alas he was too late
+      And saw his friend's unhappy fate;
+    He groaned, and shrieked and tore his fur
+      And raised an awful din and stir.
+
+    The sea gull heard this awful racket
+      And seized the mole, just like a packet.
+    He carried him across the seas
+      To teach the young gulls A B C's.
+    But the loving mole went blind with rage
+      And they had to put him in a cage,
+    And ever since that fatal night
+      The moles have all been out of sight.
+
+
+
+
+    NOW THERE'S A COON IN THE MOON.
+
+
+    There was once an eccentric old coon,
+      Who ate dynamite with a spoon,
+    But when he got loaded
+      The powder exploded--
+    And now there's a coon in the moon.
+
+
+
+
+    THE COUNTY FAIR.
+
+
+    Oh, let's go out to the county fair
+      And breathe the balmy country air,
+    And whittle a stick and look at the hosses,
+      Discuss the farmer's profit and losses.
+
+    We'll take a look at the country stock
+      And drink some milk from a dairy crock;
+    Look at the pigs and admire the chickens,
+      And try to forget it's hot as the dickens.
+
+    Forget there are any political rings
+      Just think of the butter and eggs and things;
+    So wash off the buggy and hitch up the mare,
+      And we'll all go out to the county fair.
+
+
+
+
+    O'DOWD OF THE JEFFERSON CLUB.
+
+
+    A maddened horse comes down the street,
+      With waving mane and flying feet.
+    The crowd scatters in every direction;
+      It looks like a fight at a city election.
+    A big policeman waves his hands,
+      And the air is full of vague commands,
+    While across the street a retail grocer
+      Shrieks to his child as the horse draws closer
+    When suddenly out of the mad hubbub,
+      Steps Jimmie O'Dowd of the Jefferson Club.
+
+    Every man there holds his breath--
+      To stop the horse means sudden death.
+    But quick as a flash,
+      O'Dowd makes a dash.
+    With all his might and the horse's mane,
+      He brings the old plug to a halt again.
+    Then every man there doffs his hat
+      And cries "Well, what do you think of that?"
+    Never since the days of Nero
+      Has there been a greater hero.
+
+
+
+
+    HALLOWEEN.
+
+
+    A night when witches skim the air,
+      When spooks and goblins climb the stair;
+    When bats rush out with muffled wings,
+      And now and then the door-bell rings;
+    But just the funniest thing of all
+      Is 'cause you can't see when they call.
+
+
+
+
+    SATURDAY ON THE FARM.
+
+
+    'Tis Saturday morn and all is bright
+      By nature's own endowing;
+    The sun is fiercely giving light,
+      And only me--
+                    Plowing.
+
+    Across the river I hear the sound
+      Of a boatman slowly rowing;
+    I have no time to fool around,
+      Especially when I'm--
+                    Hoeing.
+
+    And when the dinner hour has come,
+      And thoughts of work are fleeting,
+    I only hear the insects hum,
+      Because I'm busy--
+                    Eating.
+
+    At night when all things are at rest,
+      Safe in Old Morpheus' keeping,
+    No troubles do my mind infest,
+      For I am soundly--
+                    Sleeping.
+
+
+
+
+    LOVING JOHN.
+
+
+    John went into the garden one day
+      And found his baby sister at play;
+
+    John hit baby with a brick
+      And laughed because it made her sick.
+
+    John is only two and six
+      And loves to do these funny tricks.
+
+
+
+
+    THE CIRCUS.
+
+
+    O, the circus parade! O, the circus parade!
+      It lays all the politics back in the shade,
+    And the merchants forget that they've got any trade,
+      While many remember they've never been paid
+    As they rushed out to look at the circus parade;
+      And preachers who used to be terribly staid
+    Yell just like boys at the circus parade.
+      Every one's there, both the mistress and maid,
+    All looking on at the circus parade.
+
+    And out at the grounds, when you've seen the parade,
+      How delicious it is to drink pink lemonade;
+    And look at the elephant twirling his trunk,
+      And laugh at the capers cut by the monk;
+    Watch the old clown who is acting a dunce,
+      And try hard to see three rings going at once;
+    Gaze at the ringmaster cracking his whip,
+      And watch the tight-rope artist skip.
+    I saw that circus, Yes Sirree!
+      Saw about enough for three.
+
+
+
+
+    LENT.
+
+
+    "Oh lend me five," the young man cried,
+      "My money all is spent."
+    The maiden shook her head and sighed,
+      "I'm sorry but it's Lent."
+
+
+
+
+    THE PROCESSIONAL.
+
+    (Written in collaboration with R. B. Hamilton.)
+
+
+    When Julius Caesar met his death,
+      He muttered in his dying breath:
+    "It is not patriotism now
+      Prompts you to break your friendship's vow."
+    Quoth Brutus, as he stabbed again
+      The greatest of his countrymen:
+          "You're in this fix
+          Through politics."
+
+    As on his path Columbus sped,
+      A sailor to the great man said:
+    "Without a break, without a bend,
+      The broad Atlantic has no end."
+    And to the sailor at his side,
+      'Tis rumored, that great man replied:
+          "I guess I know.
+          You go below."
+
+    The snow fell fast on Russia's soil,
+      The soldiers, wearied with their toil,
+    Cried: "'Tis not possible that we
+      Our native France again shall see."
+    Stern ever in the face of death,
+      Napoleon said beneath his breath:
+          "Go take a walk,
+          I hate such talk."
+
+    A cherry tree lay on the ground,
+      On George's body, pa did pound;
+    "But pa," George cried, "It seems to me
+      That you are wrong; dis ain't your tree."
+    The old man sadly shook his head
+      And to his wayward son he said:
+          "Don't lie to me
+          I know my tree."
+
+    When Dewey on his flagship sailed,
+      The Spaniards never even quailed.
+    "Oh, it ain't possible," said they,
+      "For him to reach Manila Bay."
+    But Dewey merely smiled in glee,
+      "It isn't possible?" quoth he,
+          "Why, hully gee,
+          Just wait and see."
+
+
+
+
+    MORAL.
+
+    Thus onward as through life we go,
+      Amid the pomp, and glare, and show,
+    We oft some proverb misconstrue
+      And mutter boldly, "'Tis not true."
+    But in their calm, majestic way,
+      We hear the tongues of wise men say:
+          "You go way back
+          And then sit down."
+
+
+
+
+    AT THE TELEPHONE.
+
+
+    Ting-ling--"South, please, 1085;
+      Why hello, Jim--Oh, Saints alive!
+    It's south, I told you--hello; no,
+      I said once that I could not go.
+
+    "Say, can you meet me there tonight?
+      Confound it, Jim, you must be tight.
+    What are you saying anyhow,
+      I've got the wrong ear by the sow?
+
+    "Not pretty? Why, she's out o'sight,
+      Oh, shut up; that will be all right.
+    You can't walk there? Why it ain't far;
+      We get there on a 'lectric car.
+
+    "Well, Great Scott, man, don't talk all day,
+      But let me know now right away.
+    Miss B----, Oh, let the old girl wait;
+      We won't be out so very late.
+
+    "You will? All right then--eight o'clock;
+      Be sure and meet me on the block,
+    Remember now, don't get it wrong;
+      All right, old man (Ting-ling), so long."
+
+
+
+
+    A HARDSHIP.
+
+
+    I never saw a loaf of bread
+      Conspicuous in its purity,
+    But that I sadly shook my head
+      And left five-cents as surety.
+
+
+
+
+    CHRISTMAS TOYS.
+
+
+    Say, I like toys,
+      Christmas toys.
+    Remember when we were boys
+      Long ago?
+    Then you were a kid
+      Not a beau.
+    And on Christmas Day,
+      Oh, say,
+    We got up in the dark
+      And had a jolly lark
+    Round the fire.
+      The cold air was shocking
+    As we peeped in our stocking--
+      And, way down in the toe,
+    Now say this is so--
+      Dad placed a dollar.
+    Made me holler.
+      Yes, sirree,
+
+    They were good to me.
+      Remember Jim?
+    Mean trick I did him.
+      You know Jim was surly?
+    Well I got up early
+      Took his dollar out,
+    And put a rock
+      In his sock.
+    Gee, he was mad,
+      Went and told dad;
+    But dad he just laughed
+      And said:
+    Might's well be dead
+      If you couldn't have fun.
+    Then for spite,
+      I kept that dollar 'til night.
+    Funny, seein' these toys
+      Made me think of us boys.
+    But now, Gee!
+      Christmas ain't like it used to be.
+
+
+
+
+    THE RUBAIYAT OF A KENTUCKIAN.
+
+
+    Wake for the sun, that scatters into flight,
+      The poker players who have stayed all night;
+    Drives husbands home with reeling steps, and then--
+      Gives to the sleepy "cops" an awful fright.
+
+    I sometimes think that never blows so red
+      The nose, as when the spirits strike the head;
+    That every step one takes upon the way
+      Makes him wish strongly he were home in bed.
+
+    The moving finger writes, but having "pull",
+      You think that you can settle things in full,
+    But when you interview the Police Judge,
+      You find that you have made an awful bull.
+
+    Some nonsense verses underneath the bough,
+      A little "booze", a time to loaf, and thou--
+    Beside me howling in the wilderness,
+      Would be enough for one day anyhow.
+
+
+
+
+    THE MEDICINE MAN.
+
+
+    Good people if you have the mumps,
+      Or ever get down with the dumps;
+    Or have bad cold or aching pains,
+      Or ever suffer with chilblains--
+    Don't seek your doctor for advice,
+      And pay him some tremendous price,
+    But buy a drug that's safe and sure--
+      In fact, get Blank's Consumptive Cure.
+
+
+
+
+    ALAS.
+
+
+    He led her out across the sand,
+      And by her side did sit:
+    He asked to hold her little hand,
+      She sweetly answered, "Nit."
+
+
+
+
+    THE GLORIOUS FOURTH AND ITS MEMORIES.
+
+
+    Have you ever mused in silence upon a summer's day
+      And let your thoughts run riot and your feelings have full sway,
+    As you sprawled full length upon the grass in some secluded dell
+      And breathed the balmy country air, and smelt the country smell?
+
+    Then as you muse,
+      And gently snooze,
+    Between thinks
+      You remember those jinks
+    When spirits were high
+      On the Fourth of July.
+
+    There was little Willie Browning, the worst of all the boys
+      Who had a sure-nuff cannon that made all kinds of noise;
+    And when the cannon wouldn't go he blew into the muzzle,
+      But what became of Willie's teeth has always been a puzzle.
+
+    How the folks looked askance
+      At the seats of our pants,
+    When those giant skyrockets
+      Went off in our pockets!
+    Gee whiz!
+      What fun the Fourth is!
+
+    When the red-hot July sun began to wink the clouds away,
+      We were out with whoops and shoutings to celebrate the day.
+    With piece of punk in one hand and crackers in the other,
+      We would troop home later in the day for linseed oil and mother.
+
+    But our burns
+      Were small concerns.
+    Our hearts were light,
+      Injuries slight.
+    Not even a sigh
+      On the Fourth of July.
+
+    And as you lie and ponder, the thought comes home to you
+      That your youngest boy now celebrates the way you used to do;
+    And the mother that he bawls for to have those small wounds dressed
+      Is the woman whom long years ago you swore you loved the best.
+
+    But what funny things
+      Memory brings.
+    Who would have thought
+      That I would be caught
+    With a tear in my eye
+      On the Fourth of July.
+
+
+
+
+    KEEP TRYIN'.
+
+
+    When you're feelin' blue as ink
+      An' your spirits 'gin to sink,
+    Don't be weak an' take a drink
+      But
+            Keep Tryin'.
+
+    There are times when all of us
+      Get riled up and start a muss,
+    But there ain't no use to cuss,
+      Just
+            Keep Tryin'.
+
+    When things seem to go awry,
+      And the sun deserts your sky,
+    Don't sit down somewhere and cry,
+      But
+            Keep Tryin'.
+
+    Everybody honors grit,
+      Men who never whine a bit--
+    Men who tell the world, "I'm IT"
+      And
+            Keep Tryin'.
+
+    Get a hustle on you NOW,
+      Make a great, big solemn vow
+    That you'll win out anyhow,
+      And
+            Keep Tryin'.
+
+    All the world's a battlefield
+      Where the true man is revealed,
+    But the ones who never yield
+            Keep Tryin'.
+
+
+
+
+    GENIUS.
+
+
+    There was once a young man quite erratic
+      Who lived all alone in an attic,
+    He wrote magazine verse
+      That made editors curse,
+    But his friends thought it fine and dramatic.
+
+
+
+
+    TALE OF THREE CITIES.
+
+
+    A seedy young man in Savanah
+      Fell in love with a rich girl named Anna,
+    But her papa got mad
+      And swore that "By Gad,
+    The fellow shall never Havana!"
+
+    But the couple eloped to Caracas,
+      Where the Germans kicked up such a fracas;
+    And he said to his wife,
+      "You can bet your sweet life
+    That papa dear never will track us."
+
+
+
+
+    MODERN MAUD MULLER.
+
+
+    Maud Muller on a summer's day,
+      Raked the meadows, sweet with hay.
+    Nor was this just a grand-stand play;
+      Maud got a rake-off, so they say.
+
+
+
+
+    NOCTURNE.
+
+
+    A cat duet.
+      A silhouette.
+    A high brick wall,
+      An awful squall.
+    A moonlit night,
+      A mortal fight.
+    A man in bed,
+      Sticks out his head.
+    Gee Whiz!
+      The man has riz.
+    His arm draws back
+      A big bootjack--
+    A loud swish,
+      Squish!
+    "What's that?"
+      A dead cat.
+
+
+
+
+    THE SISSY BOY.
+
+
+    Beware the Sissy Boy my child,
+      Not because he's very wild;
+    The Sissy Boy is never that,
+      Although he'll run if you say "Scat!"
+    The Sissy Boy's infinitesimal,
+      He is not worth a duodecimal.
+
+    If you should take a custard pie
+      And hit a Sissy in the eye,
+    He would not go before a jury,
+      He'd only blush and say "Oh Fury!"
+    For he is perfumed, sweet and mild,
+      That's just his kind, my dearest child.
+
+    One should never strike a Sissy,
+      He is too lady-like and prissy.
+    You do not need to use your fist
+      But merely slap him on the wrist,
+    And if this will not make him budge,
+      Then glare at him and say "Oh Fudge!"
+
+    The Sissy sports a pink cravat
+      And often wears a high silk hat;
+    His voice is like a turtle dove's
+      And he always wears the "cutest" gloves.
+    At playing ping-pong he's inured,
+      And his finger-nails are manicured.
+
+    He uses powder on his face
+      And his handkerchiefs are trimmed with lace;
+    He loves to play progressive euchre
+      And spend his papa's hard-earned lucre.
+    He wears an air of nonchalance
+      And always takes in every dance.
+
+    Socially, he's quite a pet
+      And always fashionably in debt.
+    He hates to be considered slow
+      And poses as a famous beau.
+    He loves to cut a swath and dash
+      When papa dear puts up the cash.
+
+    This, my child, is the Sissy Boy
+      Who acts so womanly and coy.
+    His head's as soft as new-made butter;
+      His aim in life is just to flutter;
+    Yet he goes along with unconcern
+      And marries a woman with money to burn.
+
+
+
+
+    TO GELETT BURGESS.
+
+
+    I never saw a purple cow,
+      You say you never saw one;
+    But this I'll tell you anyhow,
+      I know that I can draw one.
+
+
+
+
+    THE LOBSTER.
+
+
+    Lobsters haven't any feet,
+      But they have lots of claws;
+    Yet lobster meat is good to eat,
+      And this is strange, because--
+    A dog is never good to eat,
+      And yet a dog has paws,
+    And so have cats, and so have rats
+      And so have other kind of brats.
+
+    A lobster then, so to speak,
+      Is, my child, an awful freak;
+    For if you get him in a stew,
+      He'll blush quite red and glare at you.
+    Yet if you eat much lobster salad,
+      It will make you very pallid.
+
+
+
+
+    A PUN FROM THE DEEP.
+
+
+    A funny thing once happened to a German from Berlin,
+      For once he got too gay and seized a swordfish by the fin,
+    This made the big fish angry, and he sawed the German's chin.
+      "Just Tell Them That I Saw You" said the swordfish with a grin.
+
+
+
+
+    STYLISH.
+
+
+    There once was an old crocodile
+      Who lived on the banks of the Nile.
+    One day, for a meal,
+      He swallowed a wheel,
+    And ate for dessert, an automobile.
+
+
+
+
+    IF I COULD FLY.
+
+    (What the Little Boy Thought.)
+
+
+    If I had wings just like a bird
+      Do you know what I'd do?
+    I'd fly way up into the sky
+      An' holler down at you.
+
+    I'd fly along the Milky Way
+      Feelin' fine and chipper,
+    An' then I'd drink some buttermilk
+      Fresh from out the Dipper.
+
+    I'd skim along through fleecy clouds,
+      An' see the great, Big Bear
+    An' ask him how he liked to live
+      So high up in the air.
+
+    Wouldn't it be dandy
+      To fly just when you please,
+    An' go an' ask the Dog-star
+      If he worried much with fleas?
+
+    I'd do all kinds of other things
+      If I could only fly,
+    But I am just a little boy
+      An' so I dassn't try.
+
+
+
+
+    A HAND-ME-DOWN.
+
+
+    Said Sue to her suitor:
+      "You'll get a new suit, or
+    I'll sue for a suitor to suit."
+      "Why Sue," said her suitor
+    Who tried hard to suit her,
+      "Your suitor is suited to suit."
+
+
+
+
+    FAREWELL SNOW.
+
+    (After Walt Whitman.)
+
+
+    That light, that white, that weird, uncanny substance we call snow
+      Is slowly sifting through the bare branches--and ever and anon
+    My thoughts sift with the drifting snow, and I am full of pale regret.
+      Yes, full of pale regret and other things--you know what I mean.
+    And why? Because the snow must go; the time has came to part.
+      Yes, it cannot wait much longer--like the flakes my thoughts are melting
+    'Tis here, 'tis there, in fact, 'tis everywhere--the snow I mean.
+      Like the thick syrup which covers buckwheat cakes it lies.
+
+    The man who says he don't regret its passing also lies.
+      And wilt thou never come again? Yes, thou ilt never come again. Alas!
+    How well I remember thee! 'Twas but yesterday, methinks.
+      When a great daub of snow fell from a nearby housetop
+    And when I ventured--poor foolish mortal that I was--to look,
+      Caught me fairly in the mouth (an awful swat) and nearly smothered me.
+    There is another little trick of thine, most lovely snow--
+      It is but a proof of thine affection to cling around our necks,
+    But still we swear--we cannot help it, Snow.
+      Now it is "Skidoo," or "23 for you." Oh, cursed inconstancy of man!
+
+
+
+
+    THE SAD TURKEY GOBBLER.
+
+
+    O a fat turkey gobbler once sat on a limb
+      And he sighed at the wind, and the wind sighed at him.
+    But the grief of the gobbler one could not diminish,
+      For it was Thanksgiving and he saw his finish.
+    So the heart of the gobbler was heavy as lead
+      And he muttered the words of the poet who said:
+    "Backward, turn backward, O Time in thy flight,
+      Make me a boy again, just for to-night!"
+
+
+
+
+    SPRIG HAS CUB.
+
+
+    Sprig, Sprig--Oh lovely Sprig!
+      Oh, hast thou cub to stay?
+    Add wilt the little birdies sig
+      Throughout the livelog day?
+    What bessage dost thou brig to be,
+      Fair Lady of by dreabs--
+    Dost whisper of the babblig brook
+      Ad fishig poles ad streabs?
+
+    Those happy days have cub agaid,
+      The sweetest of the year,
+    Whed bad cad raise ad appetite
+      Ad wholesub thirst for beer.
+    I've often thought id wudder, Sprig,
+      Of how the lily grows,
+    But the thig that's botherig be dow
+      Is how to sprig dew clothes.
+
+    Sprig, Sprig--Oh lovely Sprig!
+      By thoughts are all of you
+    I saw a robid yesterday--
+      How strange it seebs--ad dew!
+    I've got a dreadful cold, Fair Sprig,
+      Or else I'd sig to thee
+    Ad air frob Beddelssohd, perhaps,
+      Or "The Shade of the Old Apple Tree."
+
+
+
+
+    THE HOT WEATHER FIEND.
+
+
+    Ah, somewhere in another world
+      There is a warmer spot,
+    Where the fire is burning always.
+      And always it is hot;
+    And always fiends are shouting,
+      And always flames are blue,
+    And always Satan's asking:
+      "IS IT HOT ENOUGH FOR YOU?"
+
+
+
+
+    WHEN THE LID WAS ON.
+
+
+    They were seated there in silence
+      Each one busy with a frown,
+    It was midnight in the city,
+      And the lid was on the town.
+    They had all been playing poker
+      'Mid the rattle of the chink,
+    When a gloom fell o'er the party,
+      For they couldn't buy a drink,
+    But a little fellow whispered
+      As he held a poker hand,
+    "Can't we get as drunk on water
+      As we can upon the land?"
+    Then we kicked the little rascal,
+      And we spoke without a frown,
+    And we anchored safe in harbor
+      When the lid was on the town.
+
+
+
+
+    THE DOODLE BUG.
+
+
+    Why that's a doodle bug, my child
+      Who lives alone, remote and wild.
+    His domicile's a hole in the ground
+      And when at home he's easily found.
+    The only plan allowed by law
+      Is to lure him forth upon a straw,
+    For the doodle bug is a misanthrope
+      And otherwise is sure to elope.
+
+
+
+
+    GRIT.
+
+
+    I hate the fellow who sits around
+      And knocks the livelong day--
+    Who tells of the work he might have done;
+      If things had come his way.
+    But I love the fellow who pushes ahead
+      And smiles at his work or play--
+    You can wager when things do come around,
+      They will come his way--and stay.
+
+
+
+
+    THE NEXT MORNING.
+
+
+    What a difference in the morning
+      When you try to raise your head;
+    When your eyelids seem so heavy
+      You could swear they were of lead;
+    When your tongue is thickly coated
+      And you have an awful thirst;
+    When you drink so much cold water
+      That you feel about to burst;
+    When you lift your hand towards heaven
+      And solemnly do say:
+    "I'm going to 'cut out' drinking
+      And I'll swear off right to-day."
+
+
+
+
+    A WONDERFUL FEAT.
+
+
+    I never walk along the street
+      Because I haven't any feet;
+    Nor is this strange when I repeat
+      That I am but a garden beet.
+
+
+
+
+    APRIL FOOL.
+
+
+    'Twas on the f-f-f-first of April D-D-Day,
+      W-w-w-when Nature s-s-smiled and all w-w-was gay,
+    And I--w-w-why I was in a w-w-whirl,
+      'C-c-cause I w-w-was w-w-walking w-w-with my g-g-girl.
+
+    We w-w-wandered through a leafless w-w-wood
+      W-w-where many giant oak-t-t-trees s-s-stood,
+    And p-p-paused beside a d-d-dark g-g-green pool
+      And sat d-d-down on a rustic s-s-stool.
+
+    T-t-then out I s-s-spoke in accents b-b-bold,
+      And all m-m-my l-love for her I t-t-told.
+    She answered w-w-with a sweet, s-s-hy g-g-glance
+      That pierced m-m-my h-h-heart like C-C-Cupid's l-lance.
+
+    I seized her in a t-t-tight embrace,
+      And s-s-showered k-k-kisses on her f-f-face,
+    And t-t-told her that I'd g-g-give my l-life
+      If she would only b-b-be my w-w-wife.
+
+    "Please k-k-keep your l-l-life," the m-m-maid replied
+      "F-f-for I w-w-will gladly b-b-be your b-b-bride,
+    And y-y-you" she s-s-said, in t-t-tones quite c-c-cool,
+      "W-w-why you c-c-can b-b-be my April F-F-Fool."
+
+
+
+
+    BRUTAL MARY.
+
+
+    Mary had a little lamb,
+      The lamb was always buttin'
+    So Mary killed the little lamb
+      And turned him into mutton.
+
+
+
+
+    YOU COULDN'T HARDLY NOTICE IT AT ALL.
+
+
+    There was a girl in our town
+      Who dearly loved to flirt,
+    But the home folks never noticed it at all.
+      The women in the neighborhood
+    All said she was too pert,
+      But she never even noticed them at all.
+
+    One night a young man came to call
+      Who was considered slow,
+    But when he got alone with her,
+      He turned the lights down low.
+    He begged her for a little kiss,
+      She softly murmured "No,"
+    But you couldn't hardly notice it at all.
+
+
+
+
+    THE ALARM CLOCK.
+
+
+    With a clatter and a jangle,
+      And a wrangle and a screech,
+    How the old alarm clock wheezes
+      As it sneezes out of reach!
+    How you groan and yawn and stretch
+      In the chilly morning air,
+    As you pull the blankets tight,
+      With your head clear out of sight--
+    How you swear!
+
+
+
+
+    A NEW VERSION.
+
+
+    Old Mother Hubbard
+      She went to the cupboard,
+    To find a nice bone for her dog.
+      But when she got there
+    The cupboard was bare,
+      And now they are both on the hog.
+
+
+
+
+    OH SCISSORS!
+
+
+    I knew a young man so conceited
+      That a glance at his face made you heated.
+    One night, playing whist,
+      He was slapped on the wrist,
+    Because some one said that he cheated.
+
+
+
+
+    HE APED HER.
+
+
+    An impudent Barbary ape
+      Once tried on a lady's new cape.
+    As he gave a big grin,
+      The lady came in,
+    And--his children are still wearing crepe.
+
+
+
+
+    TAKE UP THE HOUSEHOLD BURDEN.
+
+
+    Take up the household burden,
+      No iron rule of kings,
+    But make your family understand
+      That you are running things,
+    Don't storm around and bluster,
+      And don't get mad and swear
+    If in the soup is floating--
+      A rag and a hank of hair.
+
+    Take up the household burden
+      In patience to abide,
+    To curse the irate grocer
+      And make your wife confide
+    By open speech and simple
+      And hundred times made plain
+    How she has sought to profit
+      In spending all you gain.
+
+    Take up the household burden--
+      The little baby boy,
+    And walk the floor in anguish
+      And don't let it annoy.
+    For when the kid seems sleepy
+      And you are feeling "sold,"
+    There comes a cry from baby boy
+      That makes your blood run cold.
+
+    Take up the household burden
+      And try and be a man,
+    Just simply grin and bear it
+      And do the best you can.
+    Come now and try your manhood
+      And let the future go,
+    And listen to your elders--
+      They've tried it and they know.
+
+
+
+
+    VITASCOPE PICTURES.
+
+
+    A young girl stands
+      Upon the sands,
+    And waves her hands--
+      Flirtation.
+
+    A fresh young man
+      With shoes of tan,
+    Looks spick and span--
+      Expectation.
+
+    They walk the beach,
+      She seems a peach
+    Just out of reach--
+      Vexation.
+
+    Ah what is this?
+      A sound of bliss
+    A kiss, a kiss--
+      Elation.
+
+    A father lean
+      Upon the scene,
+    Looks awful mean--
+      (Curtain.)
+
+
+
+
+    AN IRISH TOAST.
+
+
+    Here's to dear Ould Ireland,
+      Here's to the Irish lass,
+    Here's to Dennis and Mike and Pat,
+      Here's to the sparkling glass.
+    Here's to the Irish copper,
+      He may be green all right,
+    But you bet he's Mickie on the spot
+      Whenever it comes to a fight.
+    Here's to Robert Emmet, too,
+      And here's to our dear Tom Moore.
+    Here's to the Irish shamrock,
+      Here's to the land we adore.
+
+
+
+
+    MY LIFE AND DEATH.
+
+    (By A. Turkey Gobbler.)
+
+
+    I'm just a turkey gobbler,
+      But I've got a word to say
+    And I'd like to say it quickly
+      Before I pass away,
+    For I will get it in the neck
+      Upon Thanksgiving Day.
+
+    I cannot keep from thinking
+      Of poor Marie Antoinette,
+    She lost her head completely,
+      But this is what I'll get--
+    They'll knock the stuffin' out o' me
+      Without the least regret.
+
+    I've just a few days left now
+      Before I meet my fate,
+    For every turkey gets the axe,
+      The little and the great.
+    There never was a turkey born
+      Who didn't fill a plate.
+
+    Only three days left now,
+      Goodness, how time flies!
+    It brings a sadness to my heart
+      And teardrops to my eyes.
+    Does every turkey feel that way
+      Three days before he dies?
+
+    This is a very cruel world
+      (I'm talking sober facts),
+    For I was only raised to be
+      The victim of an axe--
+    The butt of all your silly jokes,
+      And all your funny cracks.
+
+    And when you sit down Thursday
+      How happy you will be,
+    Every person gathered there
+      Will eat enough for three.
+    I'll be the guest of honor
+      'Cause that dinner is on ME.
+
+
+
+
+    L'ENVOI.
+
+
+    I'm the ghost of that poor gobbler
+      Who used to be so great,
+    They took my poor, neglected bones
+      And piled them on a plate.
+    Reader, shed a kindly tear
+      For my unhappy fate.
+
+    This is the common lot of all
+      Upon the world's great chart;
+    We've got to leave a pile of bones--
+      The stupid and the smart.
+    Even when Napoleon died
+      He left a Bonaparte.
+
+    We are merely puppets
+      Moving on a string,
+    And when we think that we are IT,
+      The axe will fall--"Gezing!"
+    O, Grave, where is thy victory?
+      O, Death, where is thy sting?
+
+
+
+
+    IF I WERE CITY EDITOR.
+
+    (After Ben King, Dedicated to E. Jesse Conway.)
+
+
+    If I were City Editor
+      And you should come to my cold desk and choke,
+    And say, "Old man I'm actually dead broke."
+      I say, if I were City Editor,
+    And you should come in deepest grief and woe
+      And say, "Oh Lordy let me have the dough,"
+    I might arise with slow and solemn wink
+      And lecture you upon the curse of drink.
+
+    If I were City Editor
+      And you should come to my hotel and reel,
+    Clasping my beer to quench the thirst you feel,
+      I say if I were City Editor
+    And you should come in trembling and in fear
+      And even hint about licking up that beer,
+    I'd hit you just one swat, and then,
+      I guess I'd have to order one more bier.
+
+
+
+
+    TRANSCENDENTALISM.
+
+
+    What is transcendentalism?
+      Merely sentimentalism
+    With a dash of egotism
+      Somewhat mixed with mysticism.
+    Not at all like Socialism,
+      Nor a bit like Atheism,
+    Hinges not on pessimism,
+      Treats of man's asceticism,
+    Quite opposes anarchism.
+      Can't you name another "Ism?"
+    Yes, it's transcendentalism.
+
+
+
+
+    THE EPIC OF THE HOG.
+
+    (Man's Inhumanity to Hogs Makes Countless Thousands Squeal.)
+
+
+    I lived upon a little farm,
+      A happy hog was I,
+    I never dreamed of any harm
+      Nor ever thought to die.
+
+    All day I wallowed in the mud,
+      And ate the choicest slops.
+    I watched the brindles chew their cud--
+      The farmer tend his crops.
+
+    Upon the hottest days I'd go
+      And flounder in the river--
+    I thought that hogs might come and go,
+      But I would live forever.
+
+    Then finally I waxed so fat
+      That I could hardly walk,
+    And then the farmers gather 'round
+      And all began to talk.
+
+    I couldn't understand a word,
+      All I did was grunt;
+    You see that's all a hog can do--
+      It is his only stunt.
+
+    But finally they took me out
+      And put me on a train.
+    I really couldn't move about
+      And squealed with might and main.
+
+    I grunted, grunted as I flew
+      And moved in vain endeavor,
+    But even then I thought it true
+      That I would live forever.
+
+    And so we came to Packingtown
+      Where there were hogs galore,
+    I never saw so many hogs
+      In all my life before.
+
+    Then we had to shoot the chutes
+      And climb a flight of stairs,
+    We never had a chance to stop
+      Or time to say our prayers.
+
+    Loud-squealing hogs above, below
+      They formed a seething river,
+    For men may come and men may go
+      But hogs go on forever.
+
+    And then I saw an iron wheel
+      Which stood alone in state,
+    And then I heard an awful squeal--
+      A hog had met his fate.
+
+    A devilish chain upon the wheel
+      Had seized him by the leg;
+    It was no use to kick and squeal,
+      It was no use to beg.
+
+    I longed in deepest grief and woe
+      To leave that brimming river;
+    If once into that room you go
+      Your fate is sealed forever.
+
+    Farewell, Farewell, a long farewell,
+      Around the room I spin,
+    And then a fellow with a knife
+      Smites me below the chin.
+
+
+          L'Envoi.
+
+    Dear reader I was just a hog,
+      But O it's awful hard
+    To die disgraced, and then to be--
+      Turned into "Pure Leaf Lard."
+
+
+
+
+    IN KENTUCKY.
+
+    (A Response to Judge Mulligan's Famous Toast.)
+
+
+    The moonlight may be softest
+      In Kentucky,
+    And summer days come oftest
+      In Kentucky,
+    But friendship is the strongest
+      When the money lasts the longest
+    Or you sometimes get in wrongest
+      In Kentucky.
+
+    Sunshine is the brightest
+      In Kentucky,
+    And a right is often rightest
+      In Kentucky,
+    While plain girls are the fewest,
+      They work their eyes the truest,
+    They leave a fellow bluest
+      In Kentucky.
+
+    All debts are treated lightest
+      In Kentucky,
+    So make your home the brightest
+      In Kentucky,
+    If you have the social entree
+      You need never think of pay,
+    Or, at least, that's what they say
+      In Kentucky.
+
+    Orators are the proudest
+      In Kentucky,
+    And they always talk the loudest
+      In Kentucky.
+    While boys may be the fliest,
+      Their money is the shyest,
+    They carry bluffs the highest
+      In Kentucky.
+
+    Pedigrees are longest
+      In Kentucky,
+    Family trees the strongest
+      In Kentucky.
+    For blue blood is a pride,
+      But, if you've ever tried
+    You'll find 'sporting blood' inside
+      In Kentucky.
+
+    Society is exclusive
+      In Kentucky,
+    So do not be intrusive
+      In Kentucky.
+    If you want the right of way,
+      And have the coin to pay,
+    You'll be in the swim to stay
+      In Kentucky.
+
+    The race track's all the money
+      In Kentucky,
+    But don't you go there, sonny
+      In Kentucky.
+    For, while thoroughbreds are fleetest,
+      They get your coin the neatest,
+    And leave you looking seediest
+      In Kentucky.
+
+    Short-skates are the thickest
+      In Kentucky,
+    They spot a sucker quickest
+      In Kentucky.
+    They'll set up to a drink,
+      Get your money 'fore you think,
+    And you get the "dinky dink"
+      In Kentucky.
+
+    If you want to be fraternal
+      In Kentucky,
+    Just call a fellow "Colonel"
+      In Kentucky,
+    Or, give a man a nudge
+      And say, "How are you, Judge?"
+    For they never call that "fudge"
+      In Kentucky.
+
+    But when you have tough luck
+      In Kentucky,
+    In other words "get stuck"
+      In Kentucky,
+    Just raise your voice and holler
+      And you'll always raise a dollar,
+    While a drink is sure to follow
+      In Kentucky.
+
+    'Tis true that birds sing sweetest
+      In Kentucky,
+    That women folk are neatest
+      In Kentucky,
+    But there are things you shouldn't tell
+      About our grand old State--and, well--
+    Politics is h----l
+      In Kentucky.
+
+
+
+
+    IN DEEPER VEIN.
+
+    The Incubus.
+
+
+    The way was dark within the gloomy church-yard,
+      As I wandered through the woodland near the stream,
+    With slow and heavy tread
+      Through a city of the dead,
+    When suddenly I heard a dreadful scream.
+
+    My heart gave frantic leap, as when the roebuck
+      Is started by the clamor of the chase,
+    And I halted all atremble
+      In the vain hope to dissemble,
+    Or cloak the leaden pallor on my face.
+
+    'Twas in the ghostly month of grim December,
+      The frozen winds were bitter in their cry
+    And I muttered half aloud
+      To that white and silent crowd:
+    "'Tis a somber month to live in or to die."
+
+    And then as if in answer to my whisper,
+      Came a voice of some foul fiend from Hell:
+    "No longer live say I,
+      'Tis better far to die
+    And let the falling snow-flakes sound the knell."
+
+    Perched upon a tombstone sat the creature
+      Grewsome as an unquenched, burning lust.
+    Sitting livid there
+      With an open-coffin stare--
+    A stare that seemed the mocking of the just.
+
+    And in my thoughts the dreadful thing is sitting--
+      Sitting there with eyelids red and blear,
+    And see it there I will
+      'Til my restless soul is still
+    And the earth-clods roll and rumble on my bier.
+
+
+
+
+    TO CLARA MORRIS.
+
+
+    In days gone by, the poets wrote
+      Sweet verses to the ladies fair;
+    Described the nightingale's clear note,
+      Or penned an Ode to Daphne's hair.
+
+    To dare all for a woman's smile
+      Or breathe one's heart out in a rose--
+    Such trifles now are out of style,
+      The scented manuscript must close.
+
+    Yet Villon wrote his roundelays,
+      And that sweet singer Horace;
+    But I will sing of other days
+      In praise of Clara Morris.
+
+    Youth is but the joy of life,
+      Not the eternal moping;
+    We get no happiness from strife
+      Nor yet by blindly groping.
+
+    All the world's a stage you know
+      The men and women actors;
+    A little joy, a little woe--
+      These are but human factors.
+
+    The mellow days still come and go,
+      The earth is full of beauty;
+    If we would only think it so,
+      Life is not all a duty.
+
+    And you are young in heart not years,
+      Is this not true because
+    You mingle happiness with tears
+      And do not look for flaws?
+
+    Your silver hair is but the snow
+      That drifts above the roses,
+    And though the years may come and go
+      They can but scatter posies.
+
+
+
+
+    REQUIESCAT.
+
+    (Mrs. Jefferson Davis, widow of the President of the Southern
+    Confederacy died October 16, 1906.)
+
+
+    Oh weep fair South, and bow thy head
+      For one is gone beyond recall!
+    Cast flowers on the sainted dead
+      Who sleeps beneath a funeral pall.
+      To the sound of muffled drum,
+      To the sound of muffled drum.
+
+    She saw a noble husband's fame
+      Grow more enduring with the years,
+    And in the land his honored name
+      Loom brighter through a mist of tears,
+      But the sound of muffled drum!
+      O the sound of muffled drum!
+
+    Our fate is but to meet and part
+      Upon Life's dark and troubled sea,
+    Yet recollection stirs the heart,
+      Of men in gray who used to be,
+      But the sound of muffled drum!
+      O the sound of muffled drum!
+
+    Brave South, 'tis but a moment's pause
+      E'er on that dim and distant shore,
+    The heroes of thy Fallen Cause
+      Will meet again to part no more
+      To the sound of muffled drum.
+      To the sound of muffled drum.
+
+
+
+
+    CRABBED.
+
+
+    A college professor one day
+      Was fishing in Chesapeake Bay;
+    Said a crab to his mate,
+      "Let's kick off the bait,
+    This business is too old to pay."
+
+
+
+
+    LIFE.
+
+
+    The list is long, the stories read the same;
+      Strong mortal man is but a flesh-hued toy;
+    Some have their ending in a life of shame;
+      Others drink deeply from the glass of joy;
+    Some see the cup dashed dripping from their lip
+      Or drinking, find the wine has turned to gall,
+    While others taste the sweets they fain would sip
+      And then Death comes--the sequel to it all.
+
+
+
+
+    TO POE.
+
+
+    You lived in a land horror-haunted,
+      And wrote with a pen half-divine;
+    You drank bitter sorrow, undaunted
+      And cast precious pearls before swine.
+
+
+
+
+    TO A CHILD AT CHRISTMAS TIME.
+
+
+    May the day that gave Christ birth
+      Bring you boundless joy and mirth,
+    Fill the golden hours with gladness,
+      Raise no thought to cause you sadness.
+
+
+
+
+    [1]THE WAR OF THE RATS AND MICE.
+
+
+    Far back within an age remote,
+      Which common history fails to note,
+    When dogs could talk, and pigs could sing,
+      And frogs obeyed a wooden king,
+    There lived a tribe of rats so mean,
+      That such a set was never seen.
+    For during all the livelong day
+      They fought and quarrelled in the hay,
+    And then at night they robbed the mice,
+      Who always were so kind and nice.
+    They stole their bread, they stole their meat,
+      And all the jam they had to eat;
+    They gobbled up their pies and cake,
+      And everything the mice could bake;
+    They stuffed themselves with good fresh meal,
+      And ruined all they could not steal;
+    They slapped their long tails in the butter
+      Until they made a frightful splutter;
+    Then, sleek and fine in coats of silk,
+      They swam about in buttermilk.
+    They ate up everything they found,
+      And flung the plates upon the ground.
+    And catching three mice by their tails,
+      They drowned them in the water-pails;
+    Then seeing it was morning light,
+      They scampered home with all their might.
+    The mouse-tribe living far and near,
+      At once this awful thing did hear,
+    And all declared with cries of rage,
+      A war against the rats they'd wage.
+    The mouse-king blew a trumpet blast,
+      And soon the mice came thick and fast
+    From every place, in every manner,
+      And crowded round the royal banner.
+    Each had a sword, a bow and arrow;
+      Each felt as brave as any sparrow,
+    And promised, in the coming fight,
+      To die or put the rats to flight.
+    The king put on a coat of mail,
+      And tied a bow-knot to his tail;
+    He wore a pistol by his side,
+      And on a bull-frog he did ride.
+    "March on!" he cried. And, hot and thick,
+      His army rushed, in double quick.
+    And hardly one short hour had waned,
+      Before the ranks the rat-camp gained,
+    With sounding drum and screaming fife,
+      Enough to raise the dead to life.
+    The rats, awakened by the clatter,
+      Rushed out to see what was the matter,
+    Then down the whole mouse-army flew,
+      And many thieving rats it slew.
+    The mice hurrahed, the rats they squealed,
+      And soon the dreadful battle-field
+    Was blue with smoke and red with fire,
+      And filled with blood and savage ire.
+    The rats had eaten so much jam,
+      So many pies and so much ham,
+    And were so fat and sick and swollen
+      With all the good things they had stolen
+    That they could neither fight nor run;
+      And so the mice the battle won.
+    They threw up rat-fur in the air;
+      They piled up rat-tails everywhere;
+    And slaughtered rats bestrewed the ground
+      For ten or twenty miles around.
+    The rat-king galloped from the field
+      When all the rest were forced to yield;
+    But though he still retained his skin,
+      He nearly fainted with chagrin,
+    To think that in that bloody tide
+      So many of his rats had died.
+    Fierce anger blazed within his breast;
+      He would not stop to eat or rest;
+    But spurring up his fiery steed,
+      He seized a sharp and trusty reed--
+    Then, wildly shouting, rushed like hail
+      To cut off little mouse-king's tail.
+    The mouse-king's face turned red with passion
+      To see a rat come in such fashion,
+    For he had just that minute said
+      That every thieving rat was dead.
+    The rat was scared, and tried to run,
+      And vowed that he was just in fun;
+    But nought could quell the mouse-king's fury--
+      He cared not then for judge or jury;
+    And with his sharp and quivering spear,
+      He pierced the rat right through the ear.
+    The rat fell backward in the clover,
+      Kicked up his legs, and all was over.
+    The mice, with loud and joyful tones,
+      Now gathered all the bad rats' bones,
+    And with them built a pyramid,
+      Down which their little children slid.
+    And after that eventful day
+      The mice in peace and joy could play,
+    For now no wicked rats could steal
+      Their cakes and jam and pies and meal,
+    Nor catch them by their little tails,
+      And drown them in the water-pails.
+
+          [1] Written by the author's father, the late George W. Ranck. It
+          first appeared in St. Nicholas and is reprinted by permission of
+          The Century Company.
+
+
+
+
+    Things Worth While.
+
+
+    To sit and dream in a shady nook
+    While the phantom clouds roll by;
+    To con some long-remembered book
+    When the pulse of youth beats high.
+
+    To thrill when the dying sunset glows
+    Through the heart of a mystic wood,
+    To drink the sweetness of some wild rose,
+    And to find the whole world good.
+
+    To bring unto others joy and mirth,
+    And keep what friends you can;
+    To learn that the rarest gift on earth
+    Is the love of your fellow man.
+
+    To hold the respect of those you know,
+    To scorn dishonest pelf;
+    To sympathize with another's woe,
+    And just be true to yourself.
+
+    To find that a woman's honest love
+    In this great world of strife
+    Gleams steadfast like a star, above
+    The dark morass of life.
+
+    To feel a baby's clinging hand,
+    To watch a mother's smile;
+    To dwell once more in fairyland--
+    These are the things worth while.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems for Pale People, by Edwin C. Ranck
+
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