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diff --git a/5332-h/5332-h.htm b/5332-h/5332-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7916260 --- /dev/null +++ b/5332-h/5332-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,1408 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="iso-8859-1"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + The Love Sonnets of a Car Conductor, by Wallace Irwin + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +Project Gutenberg's The Love Sonnets of a Car Conductor, by Wallace Irwin + +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: The Love Sonnets of a Car Conductor + +Author: Wallace Irwin + +Release Date: March, 2004 [EBook #5332] +Last Updated: January 26, 2013 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LOVE SONNETS *** + + + + +Produced by David Schwan and David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + <div style="height: 8em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + THE LOVE SONNETS OF A CAR CONDUCTOR + </h1> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + By Wallace Irwin + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <blockquote> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Author of + The Love Sonnets of a Hoodlum + The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám, Junior + Etc. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + With a harmless and instructive Introduction + by + Wolfgang Copernicus Addleburger + + Professor of Literary Bi-Products + University of Monte Carlo +</pre> + <p> + Paul Elder & Company + </p> + <p> + San Francisco and New York + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Muse of my native land, + am I inspir'd? + —Keats. +</pre> + <p> + Copyright, 1908 + </p> + <p> + by Paul Elder and Company + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_INTR"> INTRODUCTION </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> THE LOVE SONNETS OF A CAR CONDUCTOR </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PROL"> PROLOGUE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> I </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> II </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> III </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> IV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> V </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> VI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> VII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> VIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> IX </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> X </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> XI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> XII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> XIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> XIV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> XV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> XVI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0020"> XVII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0021"> XVIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0022"> XIX </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0023"> XX </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0024"> XXI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0025"> XXII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_EPIL"> EPILOGUE </a> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_INTR" id="link2H_INTR"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + INTRODUCTION + </h2> + <p> + Science may conquer the stars, but it does nothing by jumps. As a + Scientist, as well as a philosopher, I am accustomed to reaching the + Transcendental by winding paths. It is characteristic of me that I should + have consented to preface this remarkable Sonnet Cycle only after supreme + deliberation, and that I should at last have determined to speak in behalf + of the Car Conductor for the following reasons: + </p> + <p> + 1. As a Botanist I am fascinated by the phenomenon of Genius flourishing + from bud to flower, from flower to seed. + </p> + <p> + 2. As a Psychologist I am anxious to establish once and for all, both by + plano-inductive and precoordinate systems of logic, the Status of Slang. + </p> + <p> + What position does Slang occupy in the thought of the world? Let us turn + to Zoology for an answer. + </p> + <p> + No traces of Slang may be found among mollusks, crustaceans or the lower + invertebrates. Slang is not common to vertebrate fishes or to whales, + seals, reptiles or anthropoid apes—in a word, slang-speaking is + nowhere prevalent among lower animals. It may, then, be definitely and + clearly asserted that Slang is the natural, logical expression of the + Human Race. If Man, then, is the highest of created mammals, is not his + natural speech (Slang) the highest of created languages? It is generally + conceded that Literature is the most exalted expression of Language. Would + not the Literature, then, which employs the highest of created languages + (Slang) be the supreme Literature of the world? + </p> + <p> + By such logical, irrefutable, inductive steps have I proven not only the + Status of Slang, but the literary importance of these Sonnets which it is + at once my scientific duty and my esthetic pleasure to introduce. + </p> + <p> + The twenty-six exquisite Sonnets which form this Cycle were written, + probably, during the years 1906 and 1907. Their author was William Henry + Smith, a car conductor, who penned his passion, from time to time, on the + back of transfer-slips which he treasured carefully in his hat (1). We + have it from no less an authority than Professor Sznuysko that the Car + Conductor usually performed these literary feats in public, writing + between fares on the rear platform of a Sixth Avenue car. Smith's devotion + to his Musa Sanctissima was often so hypnotic, I am told, that he + neglected to let passengers on and off—nay, it is even held by some + critics that he occasionally forgot to collect a fare. But be it said to + his undying honor that his Employers never suffered from such + carelessness, for it was the custom of our Poet to demand double fares + from the old, the feeble and the mentally deficient. + </p> + <p> + Even as the illimitable ichor of star-dust, the mysterious Demiurge of the + Universe, keeps the suns and planets to their orbitary revolutions, so + must environment mark the Fas and Nefas of Genius. Plato's Idea of the + Archetypal Man was due, perhaps, as much to the serene weather conditions + of Academe as to the marvelous mentality of Plato. What had Job eaten for + breakfast that he should have given utterance to his magnificent + Lamentation? Was he the discoverer of Human Sorrow or the pioneer of Human + Dyspepsia? + </p> + <p> + It is not altogether radical on my part, then, for me to assert that many + of the stylistic peculiarities found in these Sonnets are attributable to + the locale of their inspiration the rear platform of a Sixth Avenue car. + One can plainly hear the jar and jounce of the elliptical wheels, the cry, + "Step lively!" the six o'clock stampede, the lament of the strap-hanging + multitude in such lines as these: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "Three days with sad skidoo have came and went, + Yet Pansy cometh nix to ride with me. + I rubber vainly at the throng to see + Her golden locks—gee! such a discontent! + Perhaps she's beat it with some soapy gent—" +</pre> + <p> + Where are lines like these to be found in the Italian of Petrarch? Where + has Tasso uttered an impassioned confession to resemble this: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "But when I ogle Pansy in the throng + My heart turns over twice and rings a gong"? +</pre> + <p> + Of the human or personal record of William Henry Smith very little has + been discovered. Looking over the books of the Metropolitan Street Railway + I unearthed the following entry: + </p> + <p> + "Nov. 1, 1907:" + </p> + <p> + "W. H. Smith, conductor, discharged." + </p> + <p> + "Remarks:—Car No. 21144, William Smith, conductor, ran into large + brewery truck at So. E. cor. Sixth Ave. It is reported that Smith, to the + neglect of his duty, was reading poetry from a book called 'Sonnets of de + Heredia' at the time of the accident. Three Italians were slightly injured + by the accident, and Ethelbert Pangwyn, an actor starring in 'The Girl and + the Idiot,' a musical comedy, was killed." + </p> + <p> + "Smith was held for manslaughter, but Judge O' Rafferty, who had seen 'The + Girl and the Idiot,' discharged the defendant, averring that the killing + of Pangwyn did not constitute a crime." + </p> + <p> + What, then, has become of this minstrel who sang the Minnelieder of the + Car-barns? Like Homer, like Omar, like Sappho, like Shakespeare, he is a + Voice singing out of the mists. He was but a Name to his employers; and + his friends, if he has friends, remember him not. These Sonnets, written + neatly on twenty-six violet transfer-slips, were discovered, together with + a rejection blank from a leading magazine, in the Dead Letter office. + According to the current folk-lore in Harlem and the Bronx, Smith is now + living in California employed as a brakeman on the Southern Pacific + Railroad. Some aver that Pansy fell heiress to a sausage establishment and + moved to Italy with her Poet. Still others maintain that Pansy, Gill the + Grip and Maxy the Firebug never existed in real life—were merely the + mind-children of a Symbolist and a dreamer of dreams. + </p> + <p> + To the latter theory I incline at a scholarly angle. This Cycle may be + taken, perhaps, not so much as a living record of human experience as a + lofty parable sounding the key-note of all human life. Gill the Grip is + the Iago, the Mefistofele, the symbolism of a malevolent destiny. Maxy the + Firebug may be the Poet's interpretation of the Social Unrest, of Doubt, + of progressive irresponsibility. Would it be going too far, then, to say + that Pansy stands to us as the symbol of Pan-girlism—as an almost + Anacreontic yearning for the type? Or may not these Sonnets be taken, in a + way, as a modern Vita Nuova wherein a Sixth Avenue Alighieri calls to his + Beatrice and mourns within when, + </p> + <p> + "Pansy-girl refuses to occur?" + </p> + <p> + So much for the Poet and his Purpose. Should any one of the readers of + this Cycle doubt the enduring greatness of the lines, let him consider + that I, Wolfgang Copernicus Addleburger, have seen fit to introduce them + to immortality. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + (1) Since the salary-books of the Metropolitan Street + Railways show, during the year 1906, 182 conductors named + Smith in their employ, 38 of whom were named William Smith + and 12 William Henry Smith, it is easy for the reader to + conceive my task in establishing the identity of our Poet. + W. C. A. +</pre> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + THE LOVE SONNETS OF A CAR CONDUCTOR + </h1> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PROL" id="link2H_PROL"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PROLOGUE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Did some one ask if I am on the job? + I sure am to the pay-roll with my lay, + A hot tabasco-poultice which will stay + Close to the ribs and answer throb-to-throb. + Here have I chewed my Music from the cob + And followed Passion from the get-away + Past the big Grand Stand where the Pousse-Café + Christens my Muse as Jennie-on-the-Daub. + + Hark ye, all marks who break the Pure Fool Law, + How I, the Windy Wonder of the Age, + Have fought the Tender Passion to a draw + And got my mug upon the Sporting Page, + Since Love and I collided at the curve + And left me with a Dislocated Nerve. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + I + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Am I in bad? upon the tick of nine + Today the Pansy got aboard my ship + And sprung the Trans-Suburban for a trip. + Say, she's the shapely ticket pretty fine! + Next to her pattern Anna Held looks shine + And Lilly Russell doesn't know the grip. + But oh! she's got a deep ingrowing tip + That she must shy at honks like yours and mine. + + I says to her, "Fare, please!" out loud like that, + But she pipes, "Fade, Bill, fade! you pinched my fare." + That get-back tripped your Oswald to the mat, + And yet I yelled, "Cough up here, Golden Hair!" + Eh, what? I got the zing from Pansy's orb + Which says, "Dry out now, Shorty,—please absorb!" +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + II + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A True McGlook once handed this to me: + When little Bright Eyes cuts the cake for you + Count twenty ere you eat the honey-goo + Which leads to love and matrimony—see? + A small-change bunk what's bats on spending free + Can't four-flush when he's paying rent for two. + The pin to flash on Cupid is 'Skidoo!' + The call for Sweet Sixteen is "23." + + But say! Life looks goshawful on the stretch + Without a Ray of Sunshine in my flat, + With no one there to call me "Handsome wretch," + And dust the fuzz and mildew off my hat. + If she was waiting at the church tonight + You'd find me there with wedding-bells all right! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + III + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Pansy got on at Sixteenth Street last night, + And some one flipped a handspring in my heart. + She snickered once, "Oh look, here's Mr. Smart!" + Was I there Henry Miller? guess you're right! + I did the homerun monologue as bright + As any scrub that ever learned the art. + I plum forgot the signals, "Stop" and "Start!" + And almost wrecked the car once—guess I might! + + I took one Mike six blocks beyond the place + He flagged for his. He got as red as ham + And yodelled through his apopleptic face, + "I think you're dips!" I says, "I know I am—" + When Pansy starts to send a wireless wave + She simply just can't make her eyes behave! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IV + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + On every car there's always one fat coot + What goes to sleep and dreams he's paid his fare. + And when you squeak he gets the Roosevelt glare, + And hoots, "I won't be dickied with—I'll shoot!" + Then all the passengers get in and root. + Loud cheers of, "Put him off!" and "Make him square!" + Till Mr. Holdfast with an injured air + Pungles his nick and ends the bum dispute. + + It's ever thus on this here rolling ball— + You've got to pop your coin to ride so far. + The yap that kicks and rings a deadhead call + Must either spend or else get off the car. + On Life's Street Railway wealth may cut the cheese, + But Death rings up and says, "Step lively, please!" +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + V + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "There'll be some fancy steps at Car-Barn Hall," + Gilly the Gripman pipes me off today, + "This won't be any gabberfest—for say! + Nix but the candy goes to this here ball. + You've got to flash your union card, that's all, + To circulate the maze with Tessie May, + And all the Newport push out Harlem way + Will slip on wax till sunrise,—do you call?" + + I told him that I pulled the gong for that! + If Pansy would be there 'twas was Me for It. + I'd burnish up my buttons, mop my hat, + Polish my pumps and blow in for a hit. + "All to the Fritz," says Gill, "if you get jolly + Around the curves—you're apt to slip your trolley!" +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VI + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The lemon-wagon rumbled by today + And dropped me off a sour one—are you on? + I went and gave the boss a cooney con + About the Car-Barn Kick—what did he say? + "Back to your platform, Clarence light and gay, + Jingle the jocund fares, nor think upon + The larks of Harry Lehr or Bath House John, + For they are It and you are still on pay." + + So I have been sky-prancing all night long + A-dragging car-conductors and their queens + Clad in their laughing-robes to join the throng + That makes the Car-Barn function all the beans. + And say! I had a brainstorm just last trip + When I took Pansy's fare from Gill the Grip. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VII + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + At Midnight when I got a gasp for lunch + I mushed it for the Car-Barns just to lamp + And see the Creamy Charlies do the vamp + And swing their Fancy Floras in the crunch. + I piped my Pansy in among the bunch + And asked her would she mix it with the Champ, + Wouldn't she like to join me in a stamp? + She saw me first and stopped me with a punch. + + I saw her hook a loop with Gill the Grip, + With Pinky Smith and Handsome Hank she heeled; + With all the dossy bunks she took a skip + Each time the German tune-professor spieled. + But nix with me the lightsome toe she sprung— + As Caesar said to Cassius, "Ouch! I'm stung!" +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VIII + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Forsooth that was a passing lusty clout + That chopped me off with Pansy—don't you fret! + There's quite a blaze inside my garret yet, + And all the Dipper Corps can't put it out. + Gilly the Grip's a pretty ricky tout— + Under the old rag-rug for him, you bet, + When I put on my Navajo and get + One license to unloose my soul and shout. + + Perhaps he thinks I'm old Molasses Freight + Sidetracked at Pokey Pond and filled with prunes + Waiting for Congress to appropriate + The nuggets draped around me in festoons. + Wait till I ticket Pansy, then I guess + Slow Freight will switch to Honeymoon Express! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IX + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Today I gave a serenade to Gill; + I says, "To put it pleasant you're a screech, + Your smile would shoo the seagulls off the beach, + Your face would give Vesuvius a chill. + You're just what Mr. Shakespeare calls 'a pill + Trying to keep company with a peach.' + Now, if you want to answer with a speech, + Open your trap at once, or else lie still." + + But when I handed Gill the Grip this cluster + He simply clamped his language-mill down tight, + Strangled his guff and acted rather fluster + Although I'm sure I spoke to him polite. + I guess that Mr. Gilly ain't the kind + That understands when people talk refined. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + X + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Three days with sad skidoo have came and went, + Yet Pansy cometh nix to ride with me. + I rubber vainly at the throng to see + Her golden locks—gee! such a discontent! + Perhaps she's beat it with some soapy gent— + Perhaps she's promised Gill the Grip to be + His No. 1 till Death tolls "23!" + While I am Outsky in the supplement. + + Now and anon some Lizzie flags the train + And I, poor dots, cry, "Rapture, it is her!" + Yet guess again—my hope is all in vain + And Pansy girl refuses to occur. + If this keeps up I think I'll finish swell + Among the jabbers in a padded cell. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XI + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + My Trolley hikes to Harlem p.d.q., + And picks up pikers all along the beat. + At six o'clock the aisles are full of feet, + The straps with fingers, and the entire zoo + Boils on the platform with a mad huroo + Reckless as Bronx mosquitoes after meat. + The widow stands, the fat man gets the seat + And Satan smiles like Foxy M. Depew. + + And as we hikes along I thinks, thinks I, + "The human race is like the ocean foam, + Roaring and discontented, peevish, fly—" + Say, why in blazes don't they stay to home? + This travel-sickness is a danger which + Keeps hoboes poor and corporations rich. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XII + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Today I piped my future Ma-in-law. + She got aboard my Pullman and she scared + Three babies into fits the way she glared. + Rattle my baggage if I ever saw + A cracker-box to equal Mother's jaw, + A hardwood-finish face all nailed and squared. + She ossified the gripman when she stared— + And me? Well, I was overcame with awe. + + But, being Pansy's Ma, 't was up to me + To hand her something pit-a-pat and swell, + And so I says, "Hello, Queen Cherokee! + What ho! for Pansy? hope she's feeling well." + And Ma responds, a trifle tart but game, + "She minds her bizness—hope you feel the same." +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XIII + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I don't think Mother chalked me out to win, + To be the steady of her darling child. + She thinks I am a kick-up, something wild, + And no sweet girl should wear my college pin. + She thinks I'm some too piffly with my chin + And my soft prattle simply gets her riled. + I've lost my keys with her, to put it mild, + I don't belong, because I am not In. + + Say how, with such an iceberg on the track, + Can I conduct my car to married bliss? + I hoped that I could whistle Pansy back, + And lo! I got a frostbite off of this! + I'd wrastle Death for Her, I'd fight her Pa,— + But stab me if I'll syrup to her Ma! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XIV + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + E'en as I stood with cobwebs in my tower + A candy vision came and flagged the boat— + Give forty rah-rah-rahs! O joy, O gloat! + 'Twas Pansy like a fairy in a bower + Warbling, "Hi, stop the car!" With all my power + I yanked the bell. My brain was all afloat, + My heart cut pin-wheels, stole a base at throat, + Sang "Tammany"—and knighthood was in flower. + + I helped her on. My shoes were full of feet. + I says, "How's Ma?" She answers, "Going some." + I doffed my lid and ventured to repeat + The breeze had put the weather on the bum. + Then she replied, not seeming sore or vexed, + "It may not be so punk on Sunday next." +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XV + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The Sinful Rich go whizzing by all day + In wealthy wagons, looking pert and swell; + They get the ride, the Commons get the smell + And full of thought and microbes wend their way. + Maxy the Firebug says that Mammon's sway + Is stringing Virtue to a fare-ye-well, + But wait, he says, till Labor with a yell + Soaks Mam a crack forninst the vertebray. + + The Rich, says Max, are simply dips and yeggs + That lift the headlight beads from yaps like us; + They pinch your pie, sew up our ham and eggs + And leave us minus all that they are plus. + The world, says Max, belongs to me and Bill + And Mrs. Casey—whoa! let's roll a pill! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XVI + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + At Mrs. Casey's hunger-killing shop + Whither I hie thrice daily for my stew, + I dream I'm Mr. Waldorf as I chew + My prunes or lay my Boston-baked on top. + Growley and sinkers, slum and mutton sop, + India-rubber jelly known as "glue," + A soup-bone goulash with a spud or two, + Clatter below until I signal "Stop!" + + There may be chefs in France or Albany + Can knock a poem from a wedge of pie; + But just give me a check on Mrs. C., + For rapid-filling ballast, murmurs I. + Kings may prefer some tasty wads of hash, + But they don't feed at fifteen cents per crash! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0020" id="link2H_4_0020"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XVII + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Pansy and me for Coney Sunday noon + To see a perfect lady bump the bumps; + We rubbered at the lions with the chumps + And took the Wellman special to the moon. + She asks me, "Dance?" I answers, "Just as soon," + And so we clutched and whirled into the gumps, + But every time I went to stir my stumps + They stuck like gum-drops to a macaroon. + + "I could die dancing, Danny!" murmurs she. + (I gambolled on her corns, she hollered, "Don't!") + "I could die dancing also" (this from me), + "But if you'll pass me up, I guess I won't." + Just then some lemon-sport observed my glide + And warbled, "Slide, you frozen chicken, slide!" +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0021" id="link2H_4_0021"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XVIII + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I next sprung Pansy for a four-bit feed— + It was a giddy tax, but what care I? + We shot the bill-of-fare from soup to pie + And lemonade (that cost an extra seed). + "You're the cute plunge," says Pans', and I agreed + That at a spenderfest I wasn't shy,— + That when it came to rolling nickels by, + Willie the Cowboy was a perfect bleed. + + She said that Thomas Lawson on a lark + Would faint away to see the way I blew; + She said I'd be the whizz in Central Park, + And Ready Cash to me seemed very few. + I asked her, Did she need a Valentine? + And she responded, "You're the pink for mine!" +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0022" id="link2H_4_0022"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XIX + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + We took the iron-clad wave-tub home at ten, + And as we sat conversing on the deck + A certain Hester-street spaghetti-neck + Pipes through the darkness, "Who's yer ladyfren'?" + There might have been a hoe-down there and then + (That war-ship never came so near a wreck); + The dog-eye boy got just as pale as heck + And made a duck behind the trenches, when— + + Pansy boiled up and clamped me by a flip. + "Nixie the kindergarten!" murmurs she. + "Gents," I replied out loud, "Get off the ship + And walk, or else nail down that repartee. + This yard of lace I'm holding, so to speak, + Is pinned on tight—or will be in a week." +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0023" id="link2H_4_0023"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XX + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A-lopping on a car-barn bench I spied + Gilly the Grip, quite recent this p.m., + Just like a lily on a broken stem + Or like a Salt Lake buck without a bride. + "Chirk, Gilly, chirk!" I says in tones of pride, + "Perhaps this unhinged heart is just pro tem. + The world is full of pompadours for them + That keep their search-lights peeled from side to side." + + But Gill remarked, "Eh, what? Say, I'm so slow + I couldn't catch the hour-hand on a clock. + I'm simply stationary as they grow;. + A lamp-post race could beat me round the block. + You needn't think you're such an Alfred G., + To motor by a quarry-cart like me!" +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0024" id="link2H_4_0024"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XXI + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Next week the wedding-bells won't do a thing, + For I'll be there, I guess, to fill the set, + And Pansy's Ma, she won't be late, you bet, + To see the Reverend Mr. pull the string. + Me for a spike-tailed scabbard and a ring, + A shell-back shirt, forsooth a peacherette. + I'll be the daintiest bridegroom ever yet; + Nothing to do but take the count, then—bing! + + Love in a cottage run on union pay— + Can Teddy Roosevelt do a sum like that? + Two can eat cheap as one, perhaps, but say, + You've got to beat a quarter pretty flat + To cork three squares, make Little Two Shoes snug + And keep the Wolf from chewing up the rug. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0025" id="link2H_4_0025"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XXII + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Methinks I'm tagged to join the Worry Club, + To chase the fleeting rhino through the gloom, + To bag the boodle, trap the wild mazume + And scratch for corn when Pansy hollers "Grub!" + They say I'll turn as sickly as a chub + When on the First, with dull and deadly boom, + The Rent comes round and walks into the room, + Remarking, "Peel or else file out, you scrub!" + + But when your arms are full of girl and fluff + You hide your nerve behind a yard of grin; + You'd spit into a wild cat's face or bluff + A flock of dragons with a safety pin. + Life's a slow skate, but Love's the dopey gum + That puts a brewery horse in racing trim. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_EPIL" id="link2H_EPIL"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + EPILOGUE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Kind reader, when you 'phone don't ask for me + Enquiring how a Flossie should be won— + There isn't any Rule Book, are you on? + And Queenie can't be coaxed by recipee. + Some girls like hard-luck music, minor key, + Some like the Gas-car Gussie act, hot ton, + Others are simply fierce for Jolly John + Who loves to make a noise like repartee. + + None but the Nerve, say I, deserves the Fair, + And stony hearts can't stand up long to chin. + If Willie-on-the-doormat lingers there + The chances are he'll be Invited In. + Up against Love the Candy Kid is nix; + The Porous Plaster wins because it sticks +</pre> + <div style="height: 6em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Love Sonnets of a Car Conductor, by +Wallace Irwin + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LOVE SONNETS *** + +***** This file should be named 5332-h.htm or 5332-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/5/3/3/5332/ + +Produced by David Schwan and David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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