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+Project Gutenberg's Cobwebs from a Library Corner, by John Kendrick Bangs
+
+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: Cobwebs from a Library Corner
+
+Author: John Kendrick Bangs
+
+Release Date: December 14, 2008 [EBook #27534]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK COBWEBS FROM A LIBRARY CORNER ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Barbara Tozier, Bill Tozier and the Online
+Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
+
+
+
+
+
+These verses of Mr. Bangs's have appeared from time to time in the
+various Harper Periodicals, and elsewhere.
+
+
+[Illustration: OUT IN THE COLD]
+
+
+
+
+COBWEBS FROM A LIBRARY CORNER
+
+
+By
+
+
+John Kendrick Bangs
+
+
+
+NEW YORK AND LONDON
+
+HARPER & BROTHERS
+
+MDCCCXCIX
+
+
+
+Copyright, 1899, by HARPER & BROTHERS.
+
+All rights reserved.
+
+
+
+
+TO
+SISTER ANNE
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS
+
+
+BOOKISH
+
+  A PESSIMISTIC VIEW
+  THE MASTER'S PEN--A CONFESSION
+  BOOKWORM BALLADS (A LITERARY FEAST)
+  IDEAS FOR SALE
+  THE AUTHOR'S BOOMERANG
+  TO AN EGOTISTICAL BIOGRAPHER
+  NO COPYRIGHT NEEDED
+  INGREDIENTS OF GREATNESS
+  A COMMON FAVORITE
+  THEIR PENS
+  AN UNSOLVED PROBLEM
+  THE BIBLIOPHILE'S THREAT
+  MY TREASURES
+  A POET'S FAD
+  THE POET UNDONE
+  A WANING MUSE
+  MODESTY
+  MY LORD THE BOOK
+  THE BIBLIOMISER
+  THE "COLLECTOR"
+  A READER
+  FATE!
+  A PLEASING THOUGHT
+  BOOKS _vs._ "BOOKS," BY A BIBLIOMANIAC
+  A CONFESSION
+  THE EDITION DE LOOKS
+
+
+WISE AND OTHERWISE
+
+  NAPOLINI'S ERROR
+  MY COLOR
+  CONTENTMENT IN NATURE
+  THE HEROIC GUNNER
+  THE PATHETIC TALE OF THE CADDY BOY
+  GARRULOUS WISDOM
+  THE PERJURY OF A REJECTED LOVER
+  MAID OF CULTURE
+  NOT PERFECT
+  A CITY DWELLER'S WISH
+  WHERE ARE THEY?
+  MEMORIES
+  A SAD STATE
+  AD ASTRA PER OTIUM.
+  CONSOLATION
+  SATISFACTION ON READING "NOT ONE DISSATISFIED," BY WALT WHITMAN
+  TO A WITHERED ROSE
+  THE WORST OF ENEMIES
+  JOKES OF THE NIGHT
+  AN AUTUMNAL ROMANCE
+  THE COUNTRY IN JULY
+  MAY 30, 1893
+  THE CURSE OF WEALTH
+  THE RHYME OF THE ANCIENT POPULIST
+  ONE OF THE NAMELESS GREAT
+  IN FEBRUARY DAYS
+  A CHANGE OF AMBITION
+  MESSAGE FROM MAHATMAS
+  THE GOLD-SEEKERS
+  ODE TO A POLITICIAN
+  SOME ARE AMATEURS
+
+
+
+
+BOOKISH
+
+
+
+
+_A PESSIMISTIC VIEW_
+
+
+  A LITTLE bit of Thackeray,
+    A little bit of Scott,
+  A modicum of Dickens just
+    To tangle up the plot,
+  A paraphrase of Marryat,
+    Another from Dumas--
+  You ask me for a novel, sir,
+    And I say, there you are.
+
+  The pen is greater than the sword,
+    Of that there is no doubt.
+  The pen for me whene'er I wish
+    An enemy to rout.
+  A pen, a pad, and say a pint
+    Of ink with which to scrawl,
+  To put a foe to flight is all
+    That's needed--truly all.
+
+  But when it comes to making up
+    A novel in these days
+  You do not need a pen at all
+    To win the writer's bays.
+  A pair of sharpened scissors and
+    A wealth of pure white page
+  Will do it if you have at hand
+    A pot of mucilage.
+
+  So give to me the scissors keen,
+    And give to me the glue,
+  And I will fix a novel up
+    That's sure to startle you.
+  The good ideas have all been worked,
+    But while we've gum and paste
+  There shall be books and books and books
+    To please the public taste.
+
+
+
+
+_THE MASTER'S PEN--A CONFESSION_
+
+
+  IN my collection famed of curios
+  I have, as every bookman knows,
+  A pen that Thackeray once used.
+        To be amused,
+  I thought I'd "take that pen in hand,"
+  And see what came of it--what grand
+  Inspired lines 'twould write,
+        One Sunday night.
+  I dipped it in the ink,
+  And tried to think,
+        "Just what shall I indite?"
+  And do you know, that pen went fairly mad;
+  A dreadful time with it I had.
+  It spluttered, spattered, scratched, and blotted so,
+  I had to give it up, you know.
+  It really wouldn't work for me,
+  And so I put it down; but last night, after tea,
+  I took it up again,
+  And equally in vain.
+        The hours sped;
+        I went to bed,
+  And in my dreams the pen came up to me and said:
+  "Here is the list of Asses who have tried
+  To take up pens the master laid aside;
+  Look thou!" I looked, and lo!--perhaps you've guessed--
+  My name, like Abou Ben's, led all the rest!
+
+
+
+
+_BOOKWORM BALLADS_
+
+A LITERARY FEAST
+
+
+  MY Bookworm gave a dinner to a number of his set.
+  I was not there--I say it to my very great regret.
+  For they dined well, I fancy, if the menu that I saw
+  Was followed as implicitly as one obeys the law.
+
+  "'Twill open," he observed to me, "with quatrains on the half.
+  They go down easy; then for soup"--it really made me laugh--
+  "The poems of old Johnny Gay"--his words were rather rough--
+  "They'll do quite well, for, after all, soup's thin and sloppy stuff.
+
+  "For fish, old Izaak Walton; and to serve as an _entree_,
+  I think some fixed-up morsel, say from James, or from Daudet;
+  The roast will be Charles Kingsley--there's a deal of beef in him.
+  For sherbet, T. B. Aldrich is just suited to my whim.
+
+  "For game I'll have Boccaccio--he's quite the proper one;
+  He certainly is gamey, and a trifle underdone;
+  And for the salad, Addison, so fresh and crisp is he,
+  With just a touch of Pope to give a tang to him, you see.
+
+  "And then for cheese, Max Nordau, for I think you'll find right there
+  Some things as strong and mushy as the best of Camembert;
+  And for dessert let Thackeray and O. Khayyam be brought,
+  The which completes a dinner of most wondrous richness fraught.
+
+  "For olives and for almonds we can take the jokes of _Punch_--
+  They're good enough for us, I think, to casually munch;
+  And through it all we'll quaff the wines that flow forever clear
+  From Avon's vineyards in the heart of Will of Warwickshire."
+
+
+
+
+_IDEAS FOR SALE_
+
+
+  I'M in literary culture, and I've opened up a shop,
+  Where I'd like ye, gents and ladies, if you're passing by to stop.
+  Come and see my rich assortment of fine literary seed
+  That I'm selling to the writers of full many a modern screed.
+
+  I've bacilli for ten volumes for a dollar, in a bag--
+  Not a single germ among 'em that's been ever known to drag.
+  Not a single germ among 'em, if you see they're planted right,
+  But will grow into a novel that they'll say is out of sight.
+
+  I have motifs by the thousand, motifs sad and motifs gay.
+  You can buy 'em by the dozen, or I'll serve 'em every day:
+  I will serve 'em in the morning, as the milkman serves his wares;
+  I will serve 'em by the postman, or I'll leave 'em on your stairs.
+
+  When you get down to your table with your head a vacuum,
+  You can say unto your helpmeet, "Has that quart of ideas come
+  That we ordered served here daily from that plot-man down the street?"
+  And you'll find that I've been early my engagement to complete.
+
+  Should you want a book of poems that will bring you into fame,
+  Let me send a sample packet that will guarantee the same,
+  Holding "Seeds of Thought from Byron, Herrick, Chaucer, Tennyson."
+  Plant 'em deep, and keep 'em watered, and you'll find the deed is done.
+
+  I've a hundred comic packets that would make a Twain of Job;
+  I have "Seeds of Tales Narcotic; Tales of Surgeons and the Probe."
+  I've a most superb assortment, on the very cheapest terms,
+  Done up carefully in tin-foil, of my A 1 "Trilby Germs."
+
+  So perchance if you're ambitious in a literary line,
+  Be as dull as e'er you can be, you will surely cut a shine,
+  If you'll only take advantage of this opportunity,
+  When you're passing by to stop in for a little chat with me.
+
+  You may ask me, in conclusion, why I do not seek myself
+  All the laurel and the glory of these seeds I sell for pelf.
+  I will tell you, though the confidence I can't deny is rash,
+  I'm a trifle long on laurels, and a little short of cash.
+
+
+
+
+_THE AUTHOR'S BOOMERANG_
+
+
+  HE frowns with reason; he has always said,
+    "The public has no knowledge of true art;
+  The book of worth these days would not be read;
+    'Tis trash not truth that goes upon the mart."
+
+  And then was published his beloved work--
+    Some twenty-six editions it has had--
+  And he his own conclusion cannot shirk:
+    With such success as this it must be bad!
+
+
+
+
+_TO AN EGOTISTICAL BIOGRAPHER_
+
+
+  I'VE read your story of your friend's fine life,
+    But really, gentle sir, I fail to see,
+  Why you have named it "Blank, and Jane his wife,"
+    When you had better called it simply "Me."
+
+
+
+
+_NO COPYRIGHT NEEDED_
+
+
+  I'VE penned a score of essays bright,
+    In Addison's best style;
+  I've taken many a lofty flight,
+    The Muses to beguile.
+
+  Of novels I have written few--
+    I think no more than ten;
+  With history I've had to do,
+    Like several other men.
+
+  And still, to my intense regret,
+    Through all my woe and weal,
+  I've never penned a volume yet,
+    A foreigner would steal.
+
+
+
+
+_INGREDIENTS OF GREATNESS_
+
+
+  THE style of man I'd like to be,
+    If I could have my way,
+  Would be a sort of pot-pourri
+    Of Poe and Thackeray;
+
+  Of Horace, Edison, and Lamb;
+    Of Keats and Washington,
+  Gerome and blest Omar Khayyam,
+    And R. L. Stevenson;
+
+  Of Kipling and the Bard of Thrums,
+    And Bonaparte the great--
+  If I were these, I'd snap my thumbs
+    Derisively at Fate.
+
+
+
+
+_A COMMON FAVORITE_
+
+
+  CHARLES LAMB is good, and so is Thackeray,
+  And so's Jane Austen in her pretty way;
+  Charles Dickens, too, has pleased me quite a lot,
+  As also have both Stevenson and Scott.
+  I like Dumas and Balzac, and I think
+  Lord Byron quite a dab at spreading ink;
+  But on the whole, at home, across the sea,
+  The author I like best is Mr. Me.
+
+  A "first" of Elia filled my soul with joy.
+  A Meredith de luxe held no alloy.
+  And when I found _Pendennis_ in the parts
+  A throb of gladness stirred my heart of hearts.
+  A richly pictured set of Avon's bard
+  Upon my liking bounded pretty hard;
+  But none brought out that cloying sense of glee
+  That came from that first book by Mr. Me.
+
+  And so I beg you join me in the toast
+  To him that I confess I love the most.
+  He does not always do his level best,
+  But no one lives who can survive that test.
+  His work is queer, and some folks call it bad,
+  And some aver 'tis but a passing fad;
+  But I don't care, the fact remains that he
+  Has won my admiration--dear old Me.
+
+
+
+
+_THEIR PENS_
+
+
+  THE poet pens his odes and sonnets spruce
+  With quills plucked from the ordinary goose,
+  While critics write their sharp incisive lines
+  With quills snatched from the fretful porcupines.
+
+
+
+
+_AN UNSOLVED PROBLEM_
+
+
+  IF Bacon wrote those grand inspiring lines
+    At which alternately man weeps and laughs,
+  Who was it penned those chirographic vines
+    We know these times as Shakespeare's autographs?
+
+
+
+
+_THE BIBLIOPHILE'S THREAT_
+
+
+  IF some one does not speedily indite
+    A volume that is worthy of my shelf,
+  I'll have to buy materials and write
+    A novel and some poetry myself.
+
+
+
+
+_MY TREASURES_
+
+
+  MY library o'erflows with treasures rare:
+    Of "Dickens' firsts," a full, unbroken set;
+  And in a little nooklet off the stair
+    The whole edition of my novelette.
+
+
+
+
+_A POET'S FAD_
+
+
+  HE writes bad verse on principle,
+    E'en though it does not sell.
+  He thinks the plan original--
+    So many folk write well.
+
+
+
+
+_THE POET UNDONE_
+
+
+  HE was a poet born, but unkind Fate
+    Once doomed him for his verses to be paid,
+  Whereon he left the poet-born's estate
+    And wrote like one who'd happened to be made.
+
+
+
+
+_A WANING MUSE_
+
+
+  "WHY art thou sad, Poeticus?" said I.
+    So blue was he I feared he would not speak.
+  "Alas! I've lost my grip," was his reply--
+    "I've writ but forty poems, sir, this week."
+
+
+
+
+_MODESTY_
+
+
+  "WHAT hundred books are best, think you?" I said,
+    Addressing one devoted to the pen.
+  He thought a moment, then he raised his head:
+    "I hardly know--I've written only ten."
+
+
+
+
+_MY LORD THE BOOK_
+
+
+  A BOOK is an aristocrat:
+    'Tis pampered--lives in state;
+  Stands on a shelf, with naught whereat
+    To worry--lovely fate!
+
+  Enjoys the best of company;
+    And often--ay, 'tis so--
+  Like much in aristocracy,
+    Its title makes it go.
+
+
+
+
+_THE BIBLIOMISER_
+
+
+  HE does not read at all, yet he doth hoard
+  Rich books. In exile on his shelves they're stored;
+  And many a volume, sweet and good and true,
+  Fails in the work that it was made to do.
+  Why, e'en the dust they've caught since he began
+  Would quite suffice to make a decent man!
+
+
+
+
+_THE "COLLECTOR"_
+
+
+  I GOT a tome to-day, and I was glad to strike it,
+  Because no other man can ever get one like it.
+  'Tis poor, and badly print; its meaning's Greek;
+  But what of that? 'Tis mine, and it's unique.
+    So Bah! to others,
+    Men and brothers--
+    Bah! and likewise Pooh!
+    I've got the best of you.
+    Go sicken, die, and eke repine.
+    That book you wanted--Gad! that's mine!
+
+
+
+
+_A READER_
+
+
+  DAUDET to him is e'er Dodett;
+    Dumas he calls Dumass;
+  But prithee do not you forget
+    He's not at all an ass;
+
+  Because the books that he doth buy,
+    That on his shelf do stand,
+  Hold not one page his eagle eye
+    Hath not completely scanned.
+
+  And while this man's orthoepy
+    May not be what it should,
+  He knows what books contain, and he
+    "Can quote 'em pretty good."
+
+
+
+
+_FATE!_
+
+
+  I FEEL that I am quite as smart
+  As Edward Bulwer Lytton, Bart.
+
+  I'm also every bit as bright
+  As Walter Scott, the Scottish knight;
+
+  And in my own peculiar way
+  I'm just as good as Thackeray.
+
+  But, woe is me that it should be,
+  They got here years ahead of me,
+
+  And all the tales I would unfold
+  By them already have been told.
+
+
+
+
+_A PLEASING THOUGHT_
+
+
+  THEY speak most truly who do say
+  We have no writing-folk to-day
+  Like those whose names, in days gone by,
+  Upon the scroll of fame stood high.
+  And when I think of Smollett's tales,
+  Of waspish Pope's ill-natured rails,
+  Of Fielding dull, of Sterne too free,
+  Of Swift's uncurbed indecency,
+  Of Dr. Johnson's bludgeon-wit,
+  I must confess I'm glad of it!
+
+
+
+
+_BOOKS vs. "BOOKS"_
+
+BY A BIBLIOMANIAC
+
+
+  A VOLUME'S just received on vellum print.
+  The book is worth the vellum--no more in't.
+  But, as I search my head for thoughts, I find
+  One fact embedded firmly in my mind.
+
+  That's this, in short: while it no doubt may be
+  Most pleasant for an author small to see
+  A fine edition of his work put out,
+  No man who's sane can ever really doubt
+
+  That products of his brain and pen can live
+  Alone for that which they may haply give!
+  And though on vellum stiff the work appears,
+  It cannot live throughout the after-years,
+
+  Unless it has within its leaves some hint
+  Of something further than the style of print
+  And paper--give me Omar on mere waste,
+  I'll choose it rather than some "bookish taste,"
+
+  Expended on a flimsy, whimsey tale,
+  Put out to catch a whimsey, flimsy sale.
+  I'd choose my Omar print on grocer's wraps
+  Before the vellum books of "bookish" chaps.
+
+
+
+
+_A CONFESSION_
+
+
+  MY epic verse, my pet production, which I deemed
+    Sufficient to advance me to the highest peak
+  Of difficult Parnassus, goal of which I've dreamed
+    For many a weary year, came back to me last week.
+  The Editor I cursed, that he should stand between
+    My dear ambition and my scarcely dearer self;
+  Whose unappreciation forced to blush unseen
+    My one dear book, to gather dust upon my shelf.
+  That night in sleep an Angel fair came to my side,
+    And in her hand she held a scroll; in lines of flame
+  The name of him I'd cursed was writ; and when I cried,
+    "What portent this?" the rare celestial dame
+                                                 Replied:
+  "Read here, O Ingrate base, the name of him thou'st cursed.
+  The very man of all men who should be the first
+  Thy love and lasting gratitude to know, since he
+  Still leaves the path Parnassian open unto thee--
+  A path which thou with halting rhyme, most ill composed,
+  Against thyself hast sought to keep forever closed.
+  _Read thou thy lines again!_"
+                                Ah! bitter was the cup.
+  I read, withdrew the curse--and tore the epic up.
+
+
+
+
+_THE EDITION DE LOOKS_
+
+
+  How very close to truth these bookish men
+  Can be when in their catalogues they pen
+
+  The words descriptive of the wares they hold
+  To tempt the book-man with his purse of gold!
+
+  For instance, they have Dryden--splendid set--
+  Which some poor wight would part with wealth to get.
+
+  'Tis richly bound, its edges gilded--but--
+  Hard fate--as Dryden well deserves--_uncut_!
+
+  For who these days would think to buy the screed
+  Of dull old dusty Dryden just to read?
+
+  In faith if his editions had been kept
+  Amongst the rarities he'd ne'er have crept!
+
+  And then those pompous, overwhelming tomes
+  You find so oft in overwhelming homes,
+
+  No substance on a Whatman surface placed,
+  In polished leather and in tooling cased,
+
+  The gilded edges dazzling to the eye
+  And flaunting all their charms so wantonly.
+
+  These book-men, when they catalogue their books,
+  Call them in truth _edition de luxe_.
+
+  That's all they have, most of 'em, just plain shape,
+  With less pure wine than any unripe grape.
+
+  But tomes that travel on their "looks" indeed
+  Are only good for those who do not read;
+
+  And, like most people clad in garments grand,
+  Seem rather heavy for the average hand.
+
+
+
+
+WISE AND OTHERWISE
+
+
+
+
+_NAPOLINI'S ERROR_
+
+
+  PIETRO NAPOLINI DI VENDETTA PASQUARELLE
+  Deserted balmy Italy, the land that loved him well,
+  And sailed for soft America, of wealth the very fount,
+  To earn sufficient dollars there to make himself a count.
+  Alas for poor Pietro! he arrived in winter-time,
+  And marvelled at the poet who observed in tripping rhyme
+  How this New World was genial, and a sunny sort of clime.
+
+  No chance had he for music that's developed by a crank,
+  No chance had he at sculpture, nor a penny in the bank.
+  The pea-nut trade was languid, and for him too full of risk;
+  He thought the work on railways for his blood was rather brisk.
+  The sole profession left him to assuage his stomach's woe,
+  It struck him in meandering the city to and fro,
+  Was surely that of shovelling away the rich man's snow.
+
+  And then P. Napolini di Vendetta Pasquarelle
+  Sought out a city thoroughfare, the swellest of the swell.
+  He stole a shovel, and he found a broom he thought would do,
+  Then rang the massive front-door bell of Stuyvesant Depew.
+  "I wanta shov' da snow," he said, when there at last appeared
+  Fitzjohn Augustus Higgins, who in Birmingham was reared,
+  A man by all in low estate much hated and much feared.
+
+  "Go wi," said Fitz, with gesture bold. "Yer cahn't do nothink ere,
+  Yer bloomin', hugly furriner!" he added, with a sneer.
+  "Hi thinks as 'ow you dagoes is the cuss o' this 'ere land,
+  With wuthy citizens like me 'most starved on every 'and.
+  Hi vows hif I'd me wi at all hi'd order hout a troop,
+  Hand send the bloomin' lot o' yer 'ead over 'eels in soup.
+  Git hout, yer nahsty grabber yer; hewacuate the stoop."
+
+  Then when the snow had melted off, Fitzjohn Augustus went
+  And humbly asked his master for two dollars that he'd spent
+  In paying Napolini di Vendetta Pasquarelle;
+  While Nap went back to Italy, the land that loved him well,
+  Convinced that when he sailed that time his country to forsake,
+  He must have got aboard the ship when he was half awake,
+  And got to London, not New York, by some most odd mistake.
+
+
+
+
+_MY COLOR_
+
+
+  MY best-loved color? Well, I think I like
+    A soft and tender dewy green--for grass.
+  Sometimes a pink my fancy too will strike--
+    In lobster _puree_ or a Sauterne glass.
+
+  Blue is a color, too, I greatly love.
+    It's sort of satisfying to my eyes.
+  'Tis their own color; and I'm quite fond of
+    This hue also for soft Italian skies.
+
+  For blushes, give me red, nor hesitate
+    To pile it on; I like it good and strong
+  Upon the cheeks of her I call my Fate,
+    The loveliest of all the lovely throng.
+
+  On golden-yellow oft my fancy dwells.
+    'Tis almost godlike, as it sparkles through
+  The effervescent fizz; and wondrous spells
+    It casts o'er me when coined in dollars, too.
+
+  Hence, friend, it is I cannot specify
+    What hues particular my joys enhance.
+  I like them all; their popularity
+    At special times depends on circumstance.
+
+
+
+
+_CONTENTMENT IN NATURE_
+
+
+  I WOULD not change my joys for those
+    Of Emperors and Kings.
+  What has my gentle friend the rose
+  Told them, if aught, do you suppose--
+    The rose that tells me things?
+
+  What secrets have they had with trees?
+    What romps with grassy spears?
+  What know they of the mysteries
+  Of butterflies and honey-bees,
+    Who whisper in my ears?
+
+  What says the sunbeam unto them?
+    What tales have brooklets told?
+  Is there within their diadem
+  A single rival to the gem
+    The dewy daisies hold?
+
+  What sympathy have they with birds
+    Whose songs are songs of mine?
+  Do they e'er hear, as though in words
+  'Twas lisped, the message of the herds
+    Of grazing, lowing kine?
+
+  Ah no! Give me no lofty throne,
+    But just what Nature yields.
+  Let me but wander on, alone
+  If need be, so that all my own
+    Are woods and dales and fields.
+
+
+
+
+_THE HEROIC GUNNER_
+
+    When the order was given to withdraw from battle for breakfast,
+    one of the gun-captains, a privileged character, begged
+    Commodore Dewey to let them keep on fighting until "we've wiped
+    'em out."--_War Anecdote in Daily Paper._
+
+
+  AT the battle of Manila,
+    In the un-Pacific sea,
+  Stood a gunner with his mad up
+    Just as far as it could be--
+  Stood a gunner brave and ready
+    For the hated enemy.
+
+  Near the Isles of Philopena
+    Raged the battle all the morn,
+  And the plucky Spanish sailors
+    By the shot and shell were torn;
+  And the flag that floated o'er them
+    To oblivion was borne.
+
+  Every cannon belched projectiles,
+    Every cannon breathed forth hell,
+  Every cannon mowed the foeman
+    From the deck into the swell,
+  When amid the din of battle
+    Rang the silvery breakfast-bell.
+
+  "Stop your shooting! Come to breakfast!"
+    Cried the gallant Commodore.
+  "After eating we will let them
+    Have a rousing old encore.
+  Stow your lanyards, O my Jackies;
+    Let the cannon cease to roar."
+
+  Then upspake the fighting gunner:
+    "Dewey, don't, I beg of you.
+  What's the use of drinking coffee
+    Till we've put this scrimmage through?
+  If there's any one who's hungry,
+    Won't this Spanish omelet do?
+
+  "Farragut would not have done it
+    When through Mobile Bay he sped.
+  Why then, Dewey, should we breakfast
+    Till we've plunked 'em full of lead?
+  Let our motto be as his was--
+    _Damn the fishballs! Go ahead!_"
+
+
+
+
+_THE PATHETIC TALE OF THE CADDY BOY_
+
+
+  "COME here," said I, "oh caddy boy, and tell me how it haps
+  You cling so fast unto these links; not like the other chaps,
+  Who like to dally on the streets and play the game of craps?
+
+  "Is it that you enjoy the work of carrying a bag
+  While others speed the festive ball o'er valley, hill, and crag?
+  And do your spirits never seem to falter or to flag?
+
+  "I've watched you many a day, my lad, and puzzled o'er the fact
+  That you are so attentive to the game; your every act
+  Doth indicate perfection--there's been nothing you have lacked.
+
+  "And I would know just why it is that you so perfect seem--
+  In all my golfing days you've been the very brightest gleam--
+  Or am I lying home in bed and are you just a dream?"
+
+  "Oh, sir," said he, "I caddy here because I love my pa;
+  I cling unto these gladsome links because I love my ma;
+  In short, I love my parents, sir, and these my reasons are:
+
+  "'Twas but a year ago, good sir, when first this ancient sport
+  Came in the portals of our home--home of the sweetest sort;
+  When golf came through the window, sir, why home went through the port.
+
+  "My father first he took it up, and many a weary night
+  My mother with us children waited up by candle-light,
+  In hopes that he'd return and free us from our lonely plight.
+
+  "Then mother she went after him--alas! that it should be--
+  And shortly learned the game herself--she plays it famously--
+  Which left us children orphans, I and all my brothers three.
+
+  "They play it here, they play it there, they play it everywhere;
+  No matter what the weather, be it wet or be it fair,
+  And for the cares of golf they've dropped their every other care.
+
+  "And so it is that we poor lads are forced to leave our home,
+  And join the ranks of caddy boys who o'er the fields do roam
+  In search of little golf-balls in the sunlight and the gloam;
+
+  "For some day we are hoping that our eyes again will see
+  Our most beloved parents on some putting-green or tee;
+  A sight to gladden all our hearts if it should ever be."
+
+  And lo--I looked upon that boy--his face was sweet and sad,
+  And to my heart there came a twinge, for in that little lad
+  I recognized my eldest son--_I_ was that wicked dad!
+
+  And now together we are out on links at home and far.
+  He and his three small brothers with their shamed, repentant pa,
+  A-looking here and looking there to find their dear mamma.
+
+
+
+
+_GARRULOUS WISDOM_
+
+
+  I KNOW a wondrous man--my neighbor he;
+    He's ripe in years, and great in understanding.
+  He's versed in art, and in philosophy
+    He shows a mind that's verily commanding.
+
+  He'll stand before a painting, and without
+    A single instant's thought, or hesitation,
+  He'll tell the painter's name, nor any doubt
+    Is there he gives the proper information.
+
+  The rocks, the hills and valleys, hold from him
+    No secret that is past a man's revealing.
+  He knows why some are stout and others slim;
+    He comprehends all kinds of human feeling.
+
+  The records of the stars he knows, and each
+    Romance that round about the heavens lingers.
+  At dinner-time he oft delights to preach
+    On which was made the first, or forks or fingers.
+
+  Indeed, all things he knows, or high or low--
+    The things that fly on wing, or go a-walking--
+  Except one thing he never seems to know,
+    And that's when he should stop his endless talking.
+
+
+
+
+_THE PERJURY OF A REJECTED LOVER_
+
+
+  WHEN I was twenty-one, I swore,
+    If I should ever wed,
+  The maiden that I should adore
+    Should have a classic head;
+  Should have a form quite Junoesque;
+    A manner full of grace;
+  A wealth of hirsute picturesque
+    Above a piquant face.
+
+  But I, alas! am perjured, for
+    I've wed a dumpy lass
+  I much despised in days of yore,
+    Of quite the plainest class,
+  Because each maiden of my dream,
+    Whose favor I did seek,
+  Was so opposed unto my scheme
+    I married Jane in pique.
+
+
+
+
+_MAID OF CULTURE_
+
+
+  MAID of culture, ere we part,
+  Since we've talked of letters, art,
+  Science, faith, and hypnotism,
+  And 'most every other ism,
+  When you wrote, a while ago,
+  =Zoe mou, sas agapo,=
+
+  Let me tell you this, my dear:
+  Though your lettering was clear,
+  Though the ancient sages Greek
+  Would be glad to hear you speak,
+  They would be replete with woe
+  At your =mou, sas agapo=.
+
+  For, dear maiden most astute,
+  You have placed the mark acute
+  O'er omega. Take your specs.
+  See? It should be circumflex.
+  Still I love you, even though
+  You have written =agapo=.
+
+
+
+
+_NOT PERFECT_
+
+
+  HER eyes are blue--a lovely hue
+    For eyes; her cheeks are pink,
+  And for the cheek, 'twixt me and you,
+    That color's right, I think.
+
+  Her fingers taper prettily,
+    Her teeth are white as pearls--
+  Her hands seem softer far to me
+    Than any other girl's.
+
+  Her figure's trim--it is petite--
+    I like them just that way,
+  And truly, maiden half so sweet
+    You'd not find every day.
+
+  And yet, alas! she's not my choice,
+    This creature of my rhyme--
+  Because her soft and rich-toned voice
+    Is going all the time.
+
+
+
+
+_A CITY DWELLER'S WISH_
+
+
+  I LOVE the leaf of the old oak-tree,
+    I love the gum of the spruce,
+  I love the bark of the hickory,
+    And I love the maple's juice.
+
+  On the walnut's grain I fondly dote,
+    On the cherry's fruit I'd dine,
+  And I love to lie in a narrow boat,
+    And scent the odor of pine.
+
+  Ah, me! how I wish some power grand
+    Would invent some single tree
+  With all these points well developed, and
+    Would send that tree to me!
+
+  I'd plant it deep in the jardiniere
+    That stands in this flat of mine;
+  I'd give it the sweetest, tenderest care,
+    And water its roots with wine.
+
+
+
+
+_WHERE ARE THEY?_
+
+
+  WHAT has become of the cast-off coats
+    That covered Will Shakespeare's back?
+  What has become of the old row-boats
+    Of Kidd and his pirate pack?
+
+  Where are the scarfs that Lord Byron wore?
+    Where are poor Shelley's cuffs?
+  What has become of that wondrous store
+    Of Queen Elizabeth's ruffs?
+
+  Where are the slippers of Ferdinand?
+    Where are Marc Antony's clothes?
+  Where are the gloves from Antoinette's hand?
+    Where Oliver Goldsmith's hose?
+
+  I do not search for the ships of Tyre--
+    The grave of Whittington's cat
+  Would sooner set my spirit on fire--
+    Or even Beau Brummel's hat.
+
+  And when I reflect that there are spots
+    In the world that I can't find,
+  Where lie these same identical lots,
+    And many of this same kind,
+
+  I'm tempted to give a store of gold
+    To him that will bring to me
+  A glass, Earth's mysteries to unfold,
+    And show me where these things be.
+
+
+
+
+_MEMORIES_
+
+
+  YON maiden once a jester did adore,
+    Who early died and in the church-yard sleeps.
+  Once in a while she reads his best jokes o'er
+    And sits her down and madly, sorely weeps.
+
+
+
+
+_A SAD STATE_
+
+
+  I KNOW a man in Real Estate,
+    Whose pride of self's sublime.
+  He'd like to be a poet great
+    But "can't afford the time."
+
+
+
+
+_AD ASTRA PER OTIUM_
+
+
+  AS I read over old John Dryden's verse,
+    The rhymes of men like William Blake, and Gay,
+  The stuff that helped fill Edmund Waller's purse,
+    And that which placed on Marvell's brow the bay,
+
+  It doth appear to me that in those times
+    The Muses quaffed not sparkling wine, but grog,
+  And that to grow immortal through one's rhymes
+    Was 'bout as hard as falling off a log.
+
+
+
+
+_CONSOLATION_
+
+
+  SHAKESPEARE was not accounted great
+  When good Queen Bess ruled England's state,
+  So why should I to-day repine
+  Because the laurel is not mine?
+
+  Perhaps in twenty-ninety-three
+  Folks will begin to talk of me,
+  And somewhere statues may be built
+  Of me, in bronze, perhaps in gilt,
+
+  And sages full of quips and quirks
+  Will wonder if I wrote my works.
+  So why should I repine to-day
+  Because my brow wears not the bay?
+
+
+
+
+_SATISFACTION_
+
+ON READING "NOT ONE DISSATISFIED," BY WALT WHITMAN
+
+
+  GOD spare the day when I am satisfied!
+  Enough is truly likened to a feast that leaves man satiate.
+  The sluggishness of fulness comes apace; the dulness of a mind that
+        knows all things.
+  The lack of every sweet desire; no new sensation for the soul!
+  To want no more?
+  What vile estate is that?
+  What holds the morrow for the soul that's satisfied?
+  What holds the future for the mind content?
+  Is aspiration worthless?
+  Is much-abused ambition then so vile?
+  What is the essence of the joy of living?
+  Must yesterday, to-morrow, and to-day all be the same,
+  With nothing to be hoped for?
+  Is not a soul athirst a joyous thing?
+  Where lies content to him whose eye doth rest on higher things?
+  What satiation can compare to hope?
+  Yet who among the satisfied hath need of hope?
+  What can he hope for if he's satisfied?
+  'Tis but conceit, and nothing more, to prate of satisfaction!
+  God spare the day when I am satisfied!
+  I do not want the earth,
+  Yet nothing less will leave me quite content;
+  And once 'tis mine,
+  I'm very sure you'll find me roaming off
+  After the universe!
+
+
+
+
+_TO A WITHERED ROSE_
+
+
+  THY span of life was all too short--
+    A week or two at best--
+  From budding-time, through blossoming,
+    To withering and rest.
+
+  Yet compensation hast thou--aye!--
+    For all thy little woes;
+  For was it not thy happy lot
+    To live and die a rose?
+
+
+
+
+_THE WORST OF ENEMIES_
+
+
+  I DO not fear an enemy
+  Who all his days hath hated me.
+
+  I do not bother o'er a foe
+  Whose name and face I do not know.
+
+  I mind me not the small attack
+  Of him who bites behind my back:
+
+  But Heaven help me to the end
+  'Gainst that one who was once my friend.
+
+
+
+
+_JOKES OF THE NIGHT_
+
+
+  BLESSED jokes of my dreams! Your praises I'd sing.
+  No mirth can compare to the mirth that you bring.
+  I've read London _Punch_ from beginning to end,
+  On all comic papers much money I spend,
+  But naught that is in them can ever seem bright
+  Beside the rich jokes that I dream of at night.
+
+  How I laugh at those jests of my brain when at rest,
+  The gladdest and merriest, sweetest and best!
+  And how, when I wake in the morning and try
+  To call them to mind, oh how bashful, how shy
+  They seem, how they scatter and hide out of sight--
+  Those jokes of my dreamings, those jests of the night!
+
+  Take the one that came to me to-day just at dawn:
+  The Cable-Car turns and remarks to the Prawn,
+  "The Crowbar is seasick; but then what of that,
+  As long as the Camel won't wear a silk hat?"
+  I laughed--why, I laughed till my wife had a fright
+  For fear I'd go wild from that joke of the night.
+
+  And they're all much like that one--elusive enough,
+  Yet full of facetious, hilarious stuff--
+  Stuff past comprehension, stuff no man dares tell;
+  For nocturnal jests, e'en told ever so well--
+  'Tis odd it should be so--are not often bright,
+  Except to the dreamer who dreams them at night.
+
+
+
+
+_AN AUTUMNAL ROMANCE_
+
+
+  A LEAF fell in love with the soft green lawn,
+    He deemed her the sweetest and best,
+  And then on a dreary November dawn
+    He withered and died on her breast.
+
+
+
+
+_THE COUNTRY IN JULY_
+
+
+  WHERE glistening in the softness of the night
+  The vagrant will-o'-wisps do greet the sight;
+  Where fragrance baffling permeates the breeze
+  That gently flouts the grasses and the trees;
+  Where every flying thing doth seem to be
+  Instinct with sweetly sensuous melody;
+  Where hills and dales assume their warmest phase,
+  With here and there a scarf of opal haze
+  To soften their luxuriant attire;
+  Where one can almost hear the elfin choir
+  Across the meadow-land, down in the wood,
+  In songs of gladness--there are all things good.
+  Ah! ye who seek the spot where joys abide,
+  Awake! Awake! Seek out the country-side,
+  And through the blue-gray July haze see life
+  All free from care, from sorrow, and from strife.
+
+
+
+
+_MAY 30, 1893_
+
+
+  IT seemed to be but chance, yet who shall say
+  That 'twas not part of Nature's own sweet way,
+
+  That on the field where once the cannon's breath
+  Lay many a hero cold and stark in death,
+
+  Some little children, in the after-years,
+  Had come to play among the grassy spears,
+
+  And, all unheeding, when their romp was done,
+  Had left a wreath of wild flowers over one
+
+  Who fought to save his country, and whose lot
+  It was to die unknown and rest forgot?
+
+
+
+
+_THE CURSE OF WEALTH_
+
+
+  "WHAT shall I put my dollars in?" he asked, in wild dismay.
+    "I've fifty thousand of 'em, and I'd like to keep 'em too.
+  I'd like to put them by to serve some future rainy day,
+    But in these times of queer finance what can a fellow do?
+
+  "A railway bond is picturesque, and the supply is great,
+    But strangely like a novel that upon occasion drags,
+  Of which the critics of the time in hackneyed phrases state,
+    'The work has certain value, but the int'rest often flags!'
+
+  "The same is true of railway shares, 'tis safer to invest
+    In ploughshares, so it seems to me, in this unhappy time.
+  Some think great wealth a blessing, but it cannot stand the test;
+    He's happier by far than I who's but a single dime.
+
+  "He does not lie awake at night and fret and fume, to think
+    Of bank officials on a spree with what he's toiled to get.
+  He is not driven by his woe quite to the verge of drink
+    By wondering if his balance in the bank remains there yet.
+
+  "He does not pick the paper up in terror every night
+    To see if V.B.G. is up, or P.D.Q. is down;
+  It does not fill his anxious soul with nerve-destroying fright
+    To hear the Wall Street rumors that are flying 'bout the town.
+
+  "Ah, better had I ta'en that cash that I have skimped to save,
+    And spent it on my living and my pleasures day by day!
+  I would not now be goaded nigh unto my waiting grave,
+    By wondering how the deuce to keep those dollars mine for aye.
+
+  "I'd not be bankrupt in my nerves and prematurely old,
+    These golden shackles must be burst; I must again be free.
+  What Ho without! My ducats--to the winds with all my gold,
+    That I may once again enjoy the rest of poverty."
+
+
+
+
+_THE RHYME OF THE ANCIENT POPULIST_
+
+
+  IT was an ancient populist,
+    His beard was long and gray,
+  And punctuated by his fist,
+    He had his little say:
+  "This is the age of gold," he said,
+  "'Tis gold for butter, gold for bread,
+  Gold for bonds and gold for fun;
+  Gold for all things 'neath the sun."
+        Then with a smile
+          He shook his head.
+        "Just wait awhile,"
+          He slyly said.
+  "When we get in and run the State
+  We'll tackle gold, we'll legislate.
+        We'll pass an act
+        And make a fact
+  By which these gold-bugs will be whacked
+        Till they're as cold
+        As is their gold.
+  We're going to make a statute law by which 'twill be decreed
+  That standards are abolished, for a standard favors greed.
+  This is the country of the free, and free this land shall be
+  As soon as we the 'people' have our opportunity,
+  And he who has to pay a bill
+  Can pay in whate'er suits his will.
+  The tailor? Let him take his coats
+        And pay his notes;
+        Or if perchance
+        He's long on pants,
+        Let trousers be
+        His _L. s. d._
+  The baker! Let his landlord take
+        His rent in cake,
+  Or anything the man can bake.
+  And if a plumber wants a crumb,
+  He may unto the baker come
+            And plumb.
+  A joker needing hats or cloaks
+  Can go and pay for them with jokes,
+  And so on: what a fellow's got
+  Shall pay for things that he has not.
+  If beggars' rags were cash, you'd see
+  No longer any beggary;
+  In short, there'd be no poverty."
+  "A splendid scheme," quoth I; "but stay!
+  What of the nation's credit, pray?"
+  "Ha-ha! ho-ho!" he loudly roared.
+  "We'll leave that problem to the Lord.
+  And if He fails to keep us straight
+  Once more we'll have to legislate,
+        And so create,
+        Confounding greed,
+  As much of credit as we need."
+
+
+
+
+_ONE OF THE NAMELESS GREAT_
+
+
+  I KNEW a man who died in days of yore,
+    To whom no monument is like to rise;
+  And yet there never lived a mortal more
+    Deserving of a shaft to pierce the skies.
+
+  His chiefest wish strong friendships was to make;
+    He cared but little for this poor world's pelf;
+  He shared his joys with every one who'd take,
+    And kept his sorrows strictly to himself.
+
+
+
+
+_IN FEBRUARY DAYS_
+
+
+  FAIR Nature, like the mother of a wayward child
+    Who needs must chide the offspring of her heart,
+  Disguiseth for a season all the sweet and mild
+    Maternal softness for an austere part.
+
+  And 'neath her frown the errant earth in winter seems
+    Prostrate to lie, and petulant of mood;
+  Restrained in icy fetters all the babbling streams,
+    Like naughty babes who're learning to be good.
+
+  Then, in this second month, most motherlike again,
+    The frown assumed gives now and then a place
+  To soft indulgent glances, lessening the pain,
+    And hints of spring and pardon light her face.
+
+
+
+
+_A CHANGE OF AMBITION_
+
+
+  HORATIUS at the bridge, and he
+  Who fought at old Thermopylae;
+
+  Great Samson and his potent bone
+  By which the Philistines were slone;
+
+  Small David with his wondrous aim
+  That did for him of giant frame;
+
+  J. Caesar in his Gallic scraps
+  That made him lord of other chaps;
+
+  Sweet William, called the Conqueror,
+  Who made the Briton sick of war;
+
+  King Hal the Fifth, who nobly fought
+  And thrashed the foe at Agincourt;
+
+  Old Bonaparte, and Washington,
+  And Frederick, and Wellington,
+
+  Decatur, Nelson, Fighting Joe,
+  And Farragut, and Grant, and, oh,
+
+  A thousand other heroes I
+  Have wished I were in days gone by--
+
+  Can take their laurels from my door,
+  For I don't want 'em any more.
+
+  The truth will out; it can't be hid;
+  The doughty deed that Dewey did,
+
+  In that far distant Spanish sea,
+  Is really good enough for me.
+
+  The grammar's bad, but, O my son,
+  I wish I'd did what Dewey done!
+
+
+
+
+_MESSAGE FROM MAHATMAS_
+
+    ONSET BAY, MASSACHUSETTS, _May 24, 18--._--Theosophists and
+    others at Onset Bay Camp Grounds have been greatly excited of
+    late by a message which has been received from the Mahatmas,
+    Koot Hoomi, and his partner, who are summering in the desert of
+    Gobi. The message is of considerable length, and contains much
+    that is purely personal.--_Daily Newspaper_.
+
+
+  SOUND the timbrel, beat the drum!
+  Word from the Mahatma's come.
+  Straight from Hoomi Koot & Co.
+  Comes the note to us below,
+  Full of joy and gossiping.
+  Hoomi Koot is summering
+  In the desert waste of Gobi,
+  In a cottage of adobe.
+  All the little Koots are well.
+  Tommy Koot has learned to spell.
+  Mrs. Koot is busy on
+  Papers on "The Great Anon,"
+  Which by special cable soon,
+  From her workshop in the moon,
+  Will be sent to us below
+  By grand Hoomi Koot & Co.
+
+  We are told that Maggie Koot
+  Looks well in her golfing suit;
+  And her brand-new Astral Bike
+  Is the best they've seen this cike--
+  Cike is slang for cycle, so
+  I have learned from Koot & Co.
+  Soon she's going to take a run
+  Out from Gobi to the sun,
+  After which she thinks to race
+  For the Championship of Space,
+  And a trophy given by
+  The Grand High Pasupati.
+
+  Baby Koot has learned to walk,
+  And likewise, 'tis said, to talk;
+  But, to Mrs. Koot's dismay,
+  Seems to have a funny way:
+  Full of questions, "Why and How,"
+  All about the sacred cow.
+  Questions of a flippant ilk,
+  Like "Is Buddha made of milk?"
+  Questions void of answers spite
+  Of his parents' second sight.
+  What to do with Baby Koot
+  Worries all the whole cahoot.
+
+  Finally the message ends
+  With best love to all our friends.
+  Give our enemies a twist.
+  Let each true theoso-fist
+  Strike a thunder-hitting blow
+  For the firm of Koot & Co.;
+  Strike till black is every eye
+  Doubting our theosophy.
+  And impress on every tribe
+  _Now's the season to subscribe._
+  Guard against the coming storm;
+  Keep our astral bodies warm.
+  Give us bonnets for the head;
+  Keep our spirit stomachs fed.
+  Let your glad remittance go
+  Out to Hoomi Koot & Co.,
+  Through their Agents on the earth,
+  Men and women full of worth;
+  And when next a message comes
+  From the Koots down to their chums,
+  Those who've paid their money down
+  Will receive a harp and crown.
+
+  Step up lively! now's the time
+  For your nickel and your dime,
+  To provide for winter suits
+  For the grand Mahatma Koots.
+  Furthermore, be not too brash,
+  Send it up in solid cash.
+  Astral money, it may be,
+  Circulates in theory;
+  But 'tis best to give us cold,
+  Bilious, drossy, filthy gold.
+
+  All our blessings to you go.
+  Yours, for health,
+                      H. Koots & Co.
+
+
+
+
+_THE GOLD-SEEKERS_
+
+
+          GOLD, gold, gold!
+  What care we for hunger and cold?
+  What care we for the moil and strife,
+  Or the thousands of foes to health and life,
+  When there's gold for the mighty, and gold for the meek,
+  And gold for whoever shall dare to seek?
+      Untold
+      Is the gold;
+  And it lies in the reach of the man that's bold:
+  In the hands of the man who dares to face
+  The death in the blast, that blows apace;
+  That withers the leaves on the forest tree;
+  That fetters with ice all the northern sea;
+  That chills all the green on the fair earth's breast,
+  And as certainly kills as the un-stayed pest.
+  It lies in the hands of the man who'd sell
+  His hold on his life for an ice-bound hell.
+  What care we for the fevered brain
+  That's filled with ravings and thoughts insane,
+      So long as we hold
+      In our hands the gold?--
+  The glistening, glittering, ghastly gold
+  That comes at the end of the hunger and cold;
+  That comes at the end of the awful thirst;
+  That comes through the pain and torture accurst
+  Of limbs that are racked and minds o'erthrown,
+  The gold lies there and is all our own,
+      Be we mighty or meek,
+      If we do but seek.
+  For the hunger is sweet and the cold is fair
+  To the man whose riches are past compare;
+  And the o'erthrown mind is as good as sane,
+  And a joy to the limbs is the racking pain,
+      If the gold is there.
+  And they say, if you fail, in your dying day
+  All the tears, all the troubles, are wiped away
+  By the fever-thought of your shattered mind
+  That a cruel world has at last grown kind;
+  That your hands o'errun with the clinking gold,
+  With nuggets of weight and of worth untold,
+      And your vacant eyes
+  Gloat o'er the riches of Paradise!
+
+
+
+
+_ODE TO A POLITICIAN_
+
+
+  ALL hail to thee, O son of AEolus!
+  All hail to thee, most high Borean lord!
+  The lineal descendant of the Winds art thou.
+  Child of the Cyclone,
+  Cousin to the Hurricane,
+  Tornado's twin,
+          All hail!
+  The zephyrs of the balmy south
+          Do greet thee;
+  The eastern winds, great Boston's pride,
+  In manner osculate caress thy massive cheek;
+          Freeze onto thee,
+  And at thy word throw off congealment
+  And take on a soft caloric mood;
+  And from afar,
+  From Afric's strand,
+  Siroccan greetings come to thee!
+  The monsoon and simoom,
+  In the soft empurpled Orient,
+  At mention of thy name
+  Doff all the hats of Heathendom!
+  And all combined in one vast aggregation,
+  Cry out hail, hail, thrice hail to thee,
+  Who after years, and centuries, and cycles e'en,
+  Hast made the winds incarnate!
+          To thee
+          The visible expression in the flesh,
+          Material and tangible,
+  Of all that goes to make the element
+  That rages, blusters, blasts, and blows!
+  And if the poet's mind speaks true,
+  If he can penetrate their purposes at all,
+  It is not far from their intent
+  To lift thee on their broad November wings
+          So high
+  That none but gods can ever hope
+  Again to gaze upon thy face!
+
+
+
+
+_SOME ARE AMATEURS_
+
+
+  SHAKESPEARE was partly wrong--the world's a stage,
+    This is admitted by the bard's detractors.
+  Had William seen some Hamlets of this age
+    He'd not have called _all_ men upon it actors.
+
+
+
+
+                             LITTLE BOOKS
+                          BY FAMOUS WRITERS
+
+
+    THE FIRST CHRISTMAS (From "Ben-Hur")
+                                                 _By Lew. Wallace_
+
+    THE STORY OF THE OTHER WISE MAN
+                                               _By Henry van Dyke_
+
+    TWO GENTLEMEN OF KENTUCKY
+                                             _By James Lane Allen_
+
+    EPISODES IN VAN BIBBER'S LIFE
+                                        _By Richard Harding Davis_
+
+    GOOD FOR THE SOUL
+                                              _By Margaret Deland_
+
+    EVELINA'S GARDEN
+                                              _By Mary E. Wilkins_
+
+    COBWEBS FROM A LIBRARY CORNER (Verses)
+                                          _By John Kendrick Bangs_
+
+    THE WOMAN'S EXCHANGE
+                                          _By Ruth McEnery Stuart_
+
+    THE CAPTURED DREAM
+                                                _By Octave Thanet_
+
+    STORIES OF PEACE AND WAR
+                                           _By Frederic Remington_
+
+
+             Uniform with this Volume--with Frontispiece
+                        _Fifty Cents a Volume_
+
+
+                    HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS
+
+                         NEW YORK AND LONDON
+
+
+    [Pointing hand] _Any of the above works will be sent by mail,
+    postage prepaid, to any part of the United States, Canada, or
+    Mexico, on receipt of the price._
+
+
+
+
+    Transcriber's note: Words originally in Greek are set off by
+    equal signs like so: =agapo=.
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Cobwebs from a Library Corner, by
+John Kendrick Bangs
+
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