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+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75356 ***
+
+
+
+
+
+  Do You
+  Believe
+  in
+  Fairies?
+
+  by
+  Leonora de Lima Andrews
+
+
+  LITERARY COMMODITIES
+  25 West 43rd Street
+  New York,      N. Y.
+
+
+
+
+  Copyrighted 1924
+  by
+  Literary Commodities
+
+
+
+
+TABLE OF CONTENTS
+
+
+  The Little Girl                                7
+
+  To Please Eight and a Half                    11
+
+  The Music Charm                               16
+
+  The Tale of the Fretful Child                 17
+
+  Ballade for Believers in Fairies              26
+
+  The Revenge of Gobble-me-up                   28
+
+  The Piper                                     35
+
+  Richard the Lion-Hearted                      37
+
+  Daughter-Goose Rhymes                         40
+
+  Beauty and the Beach                          43
+
+  Sensations of Swinburning                     46
+
+  Day Dreams                                    47
+
+  Rain in the City at Night                     48
+
+  Christmas                                     49
+
+  Romantic Adventure into Religion              50
+
+  Sunday                                        58
+
+  New Year’s Day                                59
+
+  Silence                                       60
+
+  Bluffing                                      61
+
+  The Delicatessen Shop                         62
+
+  Listening In                                  63
+
+  Mt. Riga Road                                 64
+
+  Rain                                          65
+
+  Growing Pains                                 66
+
+  Adolescence                                   68
+
+  To ----                                       69
+
+  Fragment                                      69
+
+  To Marie                                      70
+
+  Freudianisms                                  72
+
+  The Old Man Speaks                            74
+
+  Ballade for Moralists                         75
+
+  Heaven at Last                                77
+
+  The Future                                    78
+
+
+
+
+  DO YOU BELIEVE IN FAIRIES?
+
+  (A book of fantasy for grown-up children)
+
+
+
+
+THE LITTLE GIRL
+
+
+The little girl ran and ran and let the wind blow her hair until it
+stood out behind her as though it were wired. The air was so clear and
+blue that she thought: “If I jump a little I will land on the top of
+that mountain over there.”
+
+But she didn’t jump. It would have been taking a mean advantage of
+the mountain, she thought. She would just fly up the side of it, much
+as she was flying along the road now. And when she had gotten to the
+very topmost part, she would not deign to look down upon all the silly
+people in the valley--the people who just went on working, and didn’t
+have the sense to shout with joy because the sun was shining. She would
+reach up her hand, and feel the little fleecy cloud that was sitting so
+still and quiet, way up there. She would squash it between her fingers
+to see if it was wet or dry. And if it was dry, she would wrap it
+around her, to keep it warm forever, and would spend the rest of her
+days trying to catch, in a rose-colored bottle, the cold wind that went
+rushing past.
+
+And so the little girl ran and ran.
+
+The wind whistled at her speed. The dewy grass kissed her feet, and the
+cows in the meadows yawned as she passed.
+
+* * * * *
+
+Then she stumbled. A round smooth rock had rolled across her path: a
+granite rock, with specks that twinkled like bad men’s eyes. It was an
+orthodox rock--the sort that rarely rolled from its ledge. It growled:
+
+“Look at this astounding young person’s behavior on a Sunday! The idea!
+A gentleman and a preacher should put an end to such goings-on.”
+
+And so the smooth stone rolled in her path-way, and she stumbled and
+fell over it.
+
+A discreet silence had settled over the countryside, just as though
+all the fields were on their best behavior. The rows and rows of
+conscientiously trained beets and onions drew themselves up in the
+pride of their posture. They too are very orthodox. They look down upon
+those of their vegetable brethren who have allowed themselves to be
+blown away from the straight and narrow path while still in the seed
+stage. It is fair, in a kingdom of stones, that these should do penance
+by eternal excommunication from the pale. And thus pondering, in pious
+disgust, the beets and carrots were spending their Sunday.
+
+The truant asparagus, long since reformed from rigid rows, was
+glorifying heaven in its own sweet way. It sprawled over the edge of
+its patch, as though to cover as much of the earth as possible--to
+be as near to her as possible. It does her honor, by dressing up in
+feathery finery to adorn her. It even catches the dew-drops, and
+roguishly uses them as pearls; for it makes its religion a perpetual
+pageant to glorify nature, and it scorns the priggish severity of
+the onion elders who have carefully stored up all their dew, for the
+cultivation of orthopedic roots.
+
+These were the extremes of the vegetable Sunday behavior, and they are
+interspersed with just such in between stages as the meadows show,--a
+sort of tired business man-ish relief from the droning haying machines,
+and the hard cobble-stone wall.
+
+Over the vegetable kingdom the round stones rule in their smooth sly
+fashion, appearing in the furrows to retard the busy harrower in his
+task, and censoring the human children’s play.
+
+But past them all the Little Girl ran, laughing at the wind, brushing
+off the dirt that spotted her starched dress, and forgetting all
+about her bruises and scratches. On and on she ran, her eye fixed on
+the fleecy white cloud, her heart aching to fondle it, and her legs
+tireless in their never-ending race for the stars.
+
+
+
+
+TO PLEASE EIGHT AND A HALF
+
+
+First of all there was Mildred, who was eleven, and quite sedate. Then
+there were the twins, Eveline and Madeline, who were eight and a half
+and eight and a half and ten minutes old, respectively, and who liked
+stories.
+
+“Can you tell ’em?” Madeline inquired anxiously. She was curled up in
+my lap, and when she spoke she wrinkled up her nose in a funny little
+way that hid the one freckle on its tip that was the only means of
+distinguishing her from Eveline.
+
+“I’ll try,” I offered.
+
+“Make it about goblins, please,” ordered Madeline.
+
+“And fairies,” Eveline added.
+
+“And real people, too,” suggested Mildred who was, as I said, eleven,
+and almost beyond fairies, which was rather a pity.
+
+“Once upon a time,” I started, and paused. A grown-up had interrupted
+us with some foolish grown-up question.
+
+“Once upon a time,” again I began.
+
+“You said that before,” objected Eveline.
+
+“Yes’m,” accused Madeline.
+
+“--Many, many years ago, there was a big forest, bigger than any you
+have ever seen.”
+
+“’Scuse me, Ma’am, I know where there is a biggest forest.”
+
+“Well, this was even bigger,” I insisted. “So big, in fact, that the
+leaves were as large as--as the flowers on that chair.” I finished
+pointing to the exaggerated tapestry on the furniture.
+
+“Now at the edge of the woods there was a little village, where a
+blacksmith lived, with his only daughter, Hope.
+
+“One day he sent Hope out into the forest to pick berries. As she went
+into the woods, by the little path which led from her house, there
+hopped out on it a little bunny--like the ones in the park, you know,
+excepting that this one had =two= tails.”
+
+(“Why?” asked Madeline.
+
+“To clean out his house with, of course,” explained Mildred.)
+
+“Now, although Hope had walked in the forest ever since she was a
+little girl, she had never, =never= seen a bunny with two tails. So she
+followed this one. Further and further she went, and darker and darker
+it grew, but Hope did not notice this, for she was too busy watching
+Mr. Two-tails.
+
+“Suddenly he disappeared, and left her standing in front of a great,
+green-grey stone. It was very dark, and poor Hope was very much
+frightened. I would have been, too. Wouldn’t you?”
+
+Three heads bobbed up and down energetically, and three pairs of eyes
+opened =very= wide.
+
+“But she was a sensible little girl, and knew that the good fairies
+would help her. So she knocked on the stone. There started a whirring
+noise, as of wings.
+
+“Say the magic word, and tell me your name,” sang a silvery voice.
+
+“Hope,” said the little girl.
+
+At this the stone opened, and she went into a beautiful little room,
+all lighted with fireflies and glow-worms. On the floor sat a fairy,
+busy mending a butterfly’s broken wing.
+
+‘Do you live here all alone?’ asked Hope, as she drank honey and
+dew-drops which the busy ants had brought her.
+
+“Yes,” sighed the fairy sadly. “I used to live with the forest
+goblins--”
+
+“But they are bad,” interrupted Hope. “Father has told me stories about
+them.”
+
+“Not bad!” reproved the fairy “but they did not like me to help the
+wood-land folks. They made me come here, and said they would keep every
+one from seeing me. Nobody can enter without the pass-word, Hope. And I
+cannot be free until a prince comes to sing to me.”
+
+“The next morning the blacksmith awoke, and called Hope to him, but of
+course she did not come. He was very much frightened and called out all
+the village folk to help look for her. Then a strange thing happened.
+The blacksmith looked at the wall of his hut, and saw a message appear
+in letters of gold which said, ‘Whosoever shall find Hope shall be made
+by the fairies a Prince, and shall be given a beauteous castle.’
+
+“The villagers started out, and with them a little apprentice lad
+searched too. Now, of course, the goblins kept every one away from the
+great green-grey stone, but in spite of all the goblin’s enchantments
+the apprentice lad came to the house of the fairy, because he had
+followed a little two-tailed bunny. And when he got there he was so
+happy he just sang, and sang, and as he sang his coarse village clothes
+fell off him and the royal robes of a Prince appeared in their place.
+
+“And so he took Hope back to the village with him, and the fairy flew
+out, singing and happy to be free. At the village there was great
+rejoicing, and they feasted at the Prince’s palace for a month and a
+day.”
+
+“Didn’t they get sick?” inquired Mildred.
+
+“And a few years later they were married.”
+
+“And lived happily ever after?” asked Eveline, anxiously.
+
+“And lived happily ever after!” I assured them.
+
+
+
+
+THE MUSIC CHARM
+
+(A Tiny Tot Rhyme)
+
+
+    When the great man came to play
+    He didn’t chase me far away,
+    But let me stand beside him so
+    That I could watch his fingers go.
+    I never, never saw him make
+    The very tiniest mistake....
+    And, say, I saw that player look
+    At his =ten= fingers, =and= the book
+    At once! So I =knew= there must be
+    Some trick that he had hid from me!
+    And maybe, when he’d gone away
+    The spell that brought the tunes would stay!
+
+    So when I felt that nobody
+    Was bothering to notice me,
+    I looked about that piano
+    Inside and outside, high and low,
+    To find that music. Timidly
+    I pressed each finger on a key;
+    Ma said it didn’t sound the same ...
+    It sounded queer and sounded lame,
+    But I don’t care, because some day
+    I’ll make him charm it so’s to stay!
+    And then maybe =I’ll= sit and look
+    At =my= ten fingers and the book!
+
+
+
+
+THE TALE OF THE FRETFUL CHILD
+
+
+There lived once upon a time, in the Land of Grown-ups, a very little
+boy. As soon as he was old enough to cry, which was when he was very
+young indeed, he began to cry for an adventure. But he always cried for
+it in baby talk, which Grown-ups cannot understand because they have
+forgotten it; and so nobody knew what he wanted. They gave him milk,
+and they spanked him. They sang to him and they rocked him, and they
+even showed him how the wheels in Daddy’s watch go round. But they did
+not give him an adventure, and so he kept right on crying, until bye
+and bye he came to be known as That Fretful Child, and everyone hated
+his parents.
+
+Now there is only one person in all Grown-up Land who understands
+baby talk, and that is the Oldest Woman in the World. People say that
+she understands it only because she is so old that she has learned
+everything there is to know and is going back to begin all over again.
+And, since she is as wise as she is old, and equally as gossipy, she
+soon heard everyone talking about That Fretful Child.
+
+She suspected that the baby wanted something very badly, and that that
+something was neither warm milk, nor a spanking, nor the wheels in
+Daddy’s watch. And she decided to find out what it was that he did want.
+
+So she put on her grey cobweb scarf, which makes her invisible, and
+climbed up the handle of her carpet-sweeper, for she is a very modern
+Old Woman indeed. She grasped the handle of her carpet-sweeper, right
+where the shiny part ends, said a magic word, which I have forgotten,
+and Higgelley, piggelley, before you might say “=I spy=” three times
+without winking, she was driving up to the home of the Fretful Child
+with a fearful clatter.
+
+Now the Fretful Child’s Mother was a regular sort of a Mother,
+excepting that on Sunday’s she always used silk handkerchiefs,
+embroidered with storks, and folded in thirds, instead of the linen
+ones folded in quarters that she used every day. When she heard the
+noise, and saw the carpet-sweeper drive up to the door she became very
+much excited.
+
+“Look, Timothy,” she called to her husband, who is also the Baby’s
+Father, “Look at the carpet-sweeper I have found outside of the door.”
+In Grown-up Land, you see, carpet sweepers do not always wander about
+by themselves.
+
+Timothy, however was not impressed. He only said “Un-huh”, and went on
+reading his newspaper.
+
+So the Fretful Child’s Mother took in the carpet-sweeper, and put it
+next to the Baby’s crib, for safe-keeping. Then, because the baby was
+crying very hard indeed, she hurried away to get him some warm milk,
+and left him alone to drink it, for she had learned by experience that
+he could not cry while he was doing this.
+
+When she had gone, the Oldest Woman hopped down from the
+carpet-sweeper, and took off her cobweb scarf, which made her visible.
+Then she looked at the Fretful Child over her dark green spectacles,
+and said:
+
+“Google de Goo.”
+
+Now the Baby was so surprised to hear anyone besides himself
+speaking his language, that he stopped swallowing warm milk, right
+in the middle of a gulp, and simply stared. But, although this is
+generally considered very rude, the Oldest Woman paid no attention
+to it whatsoever, and instead went right on to say something which
+translated means:
+
+“What are you crying for, anyway?”
+
+By that time the Fretful Child had stopped staring, and had finished
+his warm milk, and was able to tell her that he wanted an adventure,
+and that he wanted it badly.
+
+Upon hearing this, the Oldest Woman became very serious indeed. She
+shook her head, and wiped away a tear which had settled on the rim of
+her green spectacles and was about to roll down her nose. Then she said:
+
+“Doodle de doo,” which, as all babies know, means “You are very young
+indeed, but I will do the best I can for you.”
+
+She told him that there are very few places where adventures still grow
+wild, for they have all been collected many years ago by a group of
+people called “Famous Persons”. However, she did know of one adventure
+tree that was just beginning to bear fruit. It was quite far away, but
+all that one needed to get there was a silk handkerchief embroidered
+with a stork. Now this was very fortunate indeed. For you see, the baby
+knew that once a week his Mother used to wipe his tears off with a silk
+handkerchief, and he remembered that something on it sometimes used to
+bite him.
+
+“It must have been a stork,” exclaimed the Oldest Woman, and at
+this she became so excited that her eyes twinkled behind her green
+spectacles.
+
+In less time than it takes to tell about it, the baby was flying
+through the air on his Mother’s silk handkerchief, with his eyes
+tightly closed, and the Oldest Woman was astride a carpet-sweeper. He
+could feel the wind blowing through his hair, and the stars snapping at
+him as he went whizzing past. All the time the Oldest Woman kept saying
+magic words, and telling him not to open his eyes whatever he did, so
+that it all sounded something like this:
+
+    Hoity toity, keep them shut,
+    Ali pali poo,
+    Flutter, gutter, down he’ll clut
+    Sniggle, snaggle yo-u-u-u-u
+    O-o-o-o-w
+    You-u-u-u-u
+
+And all the voices of the night owls and snapping stars echoed
+
+    You-u-u-u-u-u-u-U*U*U*U!
+
+Until the Fretful Child felt very pale indeed.
+
+When at last the Oldest Woman told him that he might look, he found
+that they had flown all the way to Nowhereland. He knew it was
+Nowhereland, by all the Nothings standing about. There were tall
+Nothings, and short Nothings, and fat Nothings, and thin Nothings, and
+they were all kept in order by Nobodies with grey dresses on. These
+Nobodies are very much like the people in Grown-up Land. Excepting
+that, as you will notice when you look at them very closely, their
+faces are made up entirely of cheeks.
+
+The Fretful Child stared about very hard indeed. Then, because he
+couldn’t see any adventure tree, he was just beginning to take a long
+breath in order to cry. But he stopped short, just as his face was
+beginning to turn from pink to purple. For, right in the midst of the
+Nobodies stood the most beautiful adventure tree you ever saw. Its pale
+blue branches were weighed down to the place where the ground would
+have been, if there had been a ground in Nowhereland. And from even the
+lowest branches there hung luscious adventures that were dark red, and
+just right for picking. All about lay others that the wind had blown
+down, or that the Nobodies had picked, tasted, and thrown away. But
+they had missed the very best of all. And this was perfectly natural,
+when you stop to think that the Nobodies have no eyes, and their faces
+are made up entirely of cheeks.
+
+But the Fretful Child was not a Nobody. He had eyes. He saw the red
+adventures dangling there, and he squealed and crowed, and did all the
+things that fretful children never do. And then he picked one.
+
+Now it is strange to tell about, but as soon as the Fretful Child bit
+into that adventure, he stopped being a Fretful Child, and became a
+Regular Boy. Even his skin, at that very moment forgot how to change
+from pink to purple, as it used to when he wanted to cry.
+
+When the Nobodies felt what he was doing, they became very angry
+indeed, and shouted Nonsense at him, and threw Nothings at him. But
+these did not hurt him much, and so he went right on eating his
+adventure.
+
+The adventure did not taste at all the way he thought it would, and
+it puckered his mouth all up. So he tried to hold his breath to make
+his face change from pink to purple, but it wouldn’t do what he told
+it to. And then he knew that the adventure must have done something
+to him. He was not sure, but he strongly suspected that it must have
+changed him into a Regular Boy. So he stopped crying, even before he
+had let out the tiniest bit of a sound, and he smiled all over instead.
+And thereupon the Nobodies, feeling that some thing just hadn’t
+happened, dropped their nothings on the spot. And a brand new adventure
+bloomed on the tree, where the one the Fretful Child had eaten hung.
+
+He squealed in glee, and looked around for the Oldest Woman, but as
+she was as wise as she was old, and equally as gossipy, she must have
+ridden away on her carpet-sweeper to tell her friends about it, for she
+was not to be found.
+
+Just as he was wondering where she could have gone to, he felt a
+tugging at his right arm. It was the embroidered stork. Without a
+minute’s delay he climbed upon the handkerchief, stuck out his tongue
+at the Nobodies, which shows that he was a Regular Boy, and, higgelley,
+piggelley, before you might say “I spy” three times without winking, he
+was back in his own little crib.
+
+His Mother was just coming to get the carpet-sweeper, which she had
+left beside the crib, for, you see, in Grown-up Land time passes
+much more slowly than in Nowhere land. There was a great to-do when
+she found that it was gone, but just as she was growing very excited
+about this, she noticed that the Fretful Child had stopped crying, and
+this made her even more excited (but in a different way) so that she
+forgot all about the carpet-sweeper. She rushed in to tell Timothy,
+her husband about it; but he was reading the newspaper, and only said
+“Un-huh.”
+
+Soon all the neighbors came in to find out why That Fretful Child had
+stopped crying, and his Mother proudly told them that she had given him
+warm milk.
+
+Whereupon all the neighbors shook their heads and opened their mouths
+very wide, and went home to feed warm milk to their Fretful Children,
+as they have been doing ever since.
+
+
+
+
+BALLADE FOR BELIEVERS IN FAIRIES
+
+
+    All dressed up in our best we ride ...
+      From Adam’s Square and Harvard too
+    And read the ads there for our guide
+      To see what other people do;
+      Or if a paper we glance through,
+    At night time, when our curls we comb
+      This lonesome thought our souls imbue
+    “Have you a fairy in your home?”
+
+    Or when the little folks decide
+      To play a game of house, or two,
+    And roles amongst them they divide ...
+      John is papa, and mama’s Sue ...
+      Alas the parts are far too few
+    And those left out in anguish foam
+      Till someone brings this thought anew
+    “Have you a fairy in your home?”
+
+    A poor stern father has denied
+      To sweet sixteen a dress that’s new,
+    And sweet sixteen has vainly tried
+      And valiantly her suit to sue ...
+      She sees her older dress must do
+    Then finds it in a fashion tome
+      Some thoughtful fairy brought to view ...
+    “Have you a fairy in your home?”
+
+
+L’Envoi
+
+    O, Pollyanna, here’s to you--
+      I’ll greet you, if you chance to roam
+    My way, and ask when I am blue
+      “Have you a fairy in your home?”
+
+
+
+
+THE JUSTIFICATION AND REVENGE OF GOBBLE-ME-UP
+
+(A Story for Children with Appetites, and for Children Who Do Not Eat.)
+
+
+Once upon a time, in the days of long ago, when ogres and giants were
+as plentiful as policemen, and when the ocean was dotted with desert
+islands, there lived a Giant whose name was Gobble-me-up. As you may
+have guessed, he lived on one of these islands. All about him stretched
+ocean, and ocean, and more and more waves; but they didn’t bother him
+at all. He just lived there alone, and was very happy.
+
+He was a great, large, burly giant, who would have stood over six
+feet tall in his stocking feet, if he had worn stockings. He had
+round red cheeks, and dancing blue eyes, and his hair curled itself
+up into “irrepressible locks” just like your favorite hero’s. He was
+comfortably fat, and when he laughed he shook all over, just the way
+the dessert that we have on Sunday does.
+
+As I said, he was a very happy giant indeed, and he used to laugh and
+shake all over a very great deal. You see, he never realized that he
+was all alone on his island, because he had never known what it would
+be like to have someone there to play with him. Every morning when he
+had finished his rhubarb, he used to walk along the seashore, dabbling
+his toes in the soapy waves, and singing:
+
+    “Gobble-me-up is my name,
+    A Happy Giant am I ...
+    And I always feel just the same ...
+    And I’ll sing this song till I die.”
+
+When he came to this point he would always whirl about on his left heel
+three times, and clap his hands above his head.
+
+Now at the particular moment when my story would be beginning if I
+hadn’t wasted all this time talking, Gobble-me-up was just setting out
+for his morning walk. He was tossing his head in the breeze ... it was
+the first day of Spring, you see ... and he breathed in the ozone, and
+enjoyed it, because he didn’t know that it was ozone. And, according to
+his habit, he began to sing:
+
+    “Gobble-me-up is my name....”
+
+when all of a sudden three clams that were lying on the beach opened
+their shells very wide, and laughed, in perfect rhythm:
+
+    “Ha! HA!! HA!!!”
+
+Gobble-me-up looked about in surprise, and the clams continued to laugh
+in a way that was rude, even for clams.
+
+Then Gobble-me-up became very angry ... no self-respecting Giant likes
+to be laughed at. He shook his curls at them, trying to look very
+fierce indeed. At last he sputtered:
+
+    “WHAT do you
+    Mean
+    By
+    Talking to
+    ME
+    Like =that=?”
+
+(He was so angry, you see, that he leaped into free verse, a thing
+which had always been against his principles.)
+
+When the clams had laughed until they could laugh no more, and had
+rolled over in the sand to wipe the perspiration off their shells, the
+most imposing clam answered him.
+
+“Ha! ha!” she said (I am quite sure it was a “she”), “the idea of a
+giant who only eats rhubarb ... he! he! ... the idea of =his= being
+called Gobble-me-up!”
+
+At this all the other clams went off into wild gales of laughter, and
+snapped their shells to show how very funny they thought it was.
+
+Gobble-me-up was perplexed. He didn’t quite know what they meant.
+But they did not intend to leave him in any doubt about this. They
+explained immediately, interrupting each other, and acting in a way
+that was very rude indeed.
+
+They said that he ought to be a “very-cannibal-and-wear-a-red-sash-and-
+whiskers-and-eat-up-little-boys-and-girls” (they said it quickly, like
+that) and that he ought to go around muttering dreadful things like:
+
+    “Fe, fi, fo, fum,
+    I smell the blood of an Englishmun,”
+
+instead of reciting his silly little rhymes. They said that he should
+flourish a tomahawk, and dye his hair black, or at least train it to
+stand up on end. In fact they abused him horribly, telling him that
+he was ruining the time-honored reputation of the race of Giants.
+Any Giant, they said, to be worthy of the name, should endeavor to
+represent all the Giants on every occasion. He, they said, was an
+unsatisfactory specimen, and therefore deserved to be squelched most
+effectively. This they felt to be their duty, and unpleasant though it
+was, it had to be done.
+
+After this last remark, they sighed sadly, and retired into their
+shells.
+
+* * * * *
+
+From that moment on, Gobble-me-up was a changed giant. He hardly ever
+laughed, and when he sang his little song he put it in a minor key,
+which shows how very sad he was. Every morning he spoiled his rhubarb
+by weeping salty tears into it.
+
+He felt that he really must do =something=.
+
+He sat down on a log to think about it. He turned his toes inward so
+that they might console each other. He dug his elbows hard into his
+knees, and held his forehead in his hands. Then he said to himself:
+
+    “The clams win out,
+    Without a doubt,
+    I’ve simply ruined my rep ...
+    I must fix this,
+    Or else, I wis,
+    I’ll have to get some pep.”
+
+This last thought seemed to appeal to him a great deal, even though the
+rhyme wasn’t very good.
+
+But as he pondered it, he had a more awful thought. How could he act
+like a blood-thirsty Giant, and go about killing men, when he was the
+only creature that was anything like a man on the island?
+
+It was a most disturbing idea, and for three days it bothered him.
+He grew paler, and proportionately thinner. He did not weep into his
+rhubarb now, but left it strictly alone.
+
+* * * * *
+
+And then he found a solution, and worked it out in a manner truly
+worthy of a Giant. This was what he did:
+
+One night, when the moon was hidden and the stars were yawning and
+dropping off to sleep, one by one, he crept out along the beach.
+Without a sound, he crept up behind the three sleeping clams.
+Stealthily he reached out his left hand, took the youngest by its
+little neck and squashed it. Noiselessly he stretched out his right
+hand, and grasped the second one. And with a maddened shriek of triumph
+he grabbed up the last clam, before it could snap its shell at him.
+
+With an exalted countenance, he pranced up and down the beach, shouting
+his paean of victory, so that the stars stopped blinking, and the moon
+peered around the corner of a cloud to listen:
+
+    “Gobble-me-up is my name,
+    A Fearsome Giant am I,
+    I’ve a dreadful awesome fame,
+    Which nobody can deny...!
+    Gobble-me-up is my name,
+    No Giant is madder than I ...
+    Ha! =Ha!!= Ha! =Ha!!=
+    No Giant is madder than I!”
+
+Whereupon he sat down on his log, and, one by one he =ate= the clams.
+
+It didn’t matter at all that he had indigestion the next day. He knew
+that he really was an honest-to-goodness Giant, and the thought made
+him laugh and shake all over, just as he used to do in the good old
+days, before the clams had tried to disillusion him.
+
+
+
+
+THE PIPER
+
+
+    The valley is clad in a misty white fog,
+    Where the Sun God dares not intrude,
+    The hoots of the night owls have dulled and have died,
+    And the whimpering night winds brood.
+
+    Over the purple-topped rims of the earth,
+    Riding a proud little breeze,
+    Are tinkling pipings that whisper that Pan,
+    Away from the haunts of humdrum man,
+    Has led forth the day from the seas....
+    Dancing and prancing o’er grove and o’er hill,
+    Rollicking, frolicking, gay,
+    Glad in the fragrance, and glad in the dawn,
+    And proud to be leading the day.
+
+    The grey gnomes that live in the fog hear his pipes,
+    And they hide in their thick weeping veils,
+    And they dwindle and melt at the sound of his mirth,
+    When his cloven hoofs dance in the dales.
+
+    Now the King of the Day has awakened at last,
+    And has climbed to his throne in the sky,
+    And the world is astir in its workaday tasks ...
+    But Pan has gone merrily by.
+
+    Now a child who lives in the village lane
+    Hears the reed notes and tries to pursue;
+    Fast he leaps over rocks on the heath on his way ...
+    All of a sudden the piping is near ...
+    Now it’s lost to him ... again, it is here ...
+    For sudden Pan comes ... e’er you grasp for his cheer,
+    Sudden he’s sung, and away.
+
+    Away from the heart of everyday folk
+    To the hills where the west wind blows;
+    Laughing and dancing and chasing the bees ...
+    (How dreary for them just to hum in their hives!)
+    When the brown brook is gurgling, and sings as it flows,
+    And the blood-red poppy smiles as it blows ...
+    Over the hills, and away ...
+    Smiles that Pan comes ... e’er you see him, he goes ...
+    Sudden he’s sung, and away.
+
+
+
+
+AN INTERVIEW WITH RICHARD THE LION-HEARTED
+
+
+“I don’t like women,” said Richard of Brookline, and to prove it he
+sucked more violently upon a lavender lollipop.
+
+Richard spoke with all the authority of one who has spent seven years
+living across the street from five fair ladies. One might mention that
+these seven years were his first spent anywhere, and that these fair
+but fearsome feminists ranged from six to sixteen. The locale was
+Brookline, and the time romantic summer--at this point my story begins.
+
+Not long ago Richard wandered down the broad highway sucking upon his
+solitary lollipop, and wearing on his eyebrows the air of a world-weary
+capitalist. He did not offer to share his bounty with the ladies
+across the way, but did not object to having them watch him from their
+lollipopless porch. It was this haughty attitude that first made the
+Sleuth suspect him to be a woman hater.
+
+And so the Sleuth set off upon his trail immediately, but Richard, like
+many a courtly gentleman, proved to be as diffident as he was bold.
+
+“Why don’t you like women?” he was asked. And he replied:
+
+“Because.”
+
+“Because what?” the Sleuth persisted; whereupon Richard raised his
+eyebrows with an air of finality.
+
+“Because I don’t,” he said.
+
+“Don’t you like your Mama?” he was asked, and regarded the questioner
+scornfully.
+
+“She isn’t a girl,” quoth he.
+
+“But she probably was once!” The Sleuth hazarded a guess.
+
+Alas, at this point Richard was called to bed. But the next day
+the argument was continued. It was after a nerve-racking game of
+puss-in-the-corner, when the assembled court had been astonished at
+the lion-hearted Richard’s chivalry. Twice had he surrendered his
+hard-earned corner to a fluffy little four-year-old blond. The Sleuth
+joshed him as man to man. But Richard smiled about it, and man-like
+waived present contingencies to speak glittering generalities.
+
+“Girls,” he said, “are like fish.” But he omitted further details; and
+as he mused on the matter, his thoughts fell into metaphors. “Like
+fish,” he repeated solemnly. And then he spied a crop of bobbed and
+almost masculine hair that was bouncing outside the hedge fence. “Or
+like hares. Some say that they are chickens, but I think that they are
+more like trees.”
+
+“Because they wear fine feathers,” someone contributed.
+
+“Certainly,” he agreed.
+
+“But you don’t think they’re all shady, do you?” the Sleuth hastened to
+interpose.
+
+“Most are,” he sighed.
+
+And at this point he rose, to show that the interview was at an end,
+and, swinging his tin drum about his neck, he solemnly paraded down the
+block to that very masculine tune “Johnny get your Gun.”
+
+
+
+
+DAUGHTER-GOOSE RHYMES
+
+
+I
+
+    Little Jack Horner
+    Sat in a corner
+    Busily writing checks ...
+    His partners grew lazy,
+    His balance hazy,
+    His creditors all became wrecks!
+
+
+II
+
+    Flitter, flitter, little dime,
+    You can stay here a long time.
+    If I leave you as I oughter
+    Pretty soon you’ll be a quarter!
+
+
+III
+
+    Little Miss Millions
+    Longed to have billions,
+    And dreamed about trillions beside;
+    But while she was sighing,
+    Not working, just crying ...
+    Her bank account dwindled and died!
+
+    Little Miss Penny
+    Didn’t have any
+    Money at all, but she tried;
+    And so she kept saving,
+    And ardently slaving ...
+    And she owned a house when she died!
+
+
+IV
+
+    Ride in a taxi,
+      The Biltmore for lunch ...
+    Eat ... for the music
+      Will play while you munch.
+
+    Eat all you want to,
+      While large grows your dome ...
+    For after you’ve eaten
+      You’ll have to walk home!
+
+
+V
+
+    Old Mr. Croesus
+    Was worried to pieces
+    To pay for the monthly rent ...
+    For what with investments,
+    And bonds and assessments,
+    He found all his money had went!
+
+
+VI
+
+    Ike and Mike
+    (They look alike)
+    Began to work together ...
+    But Ike was sly,
+    While Mike ran dry ...
+    So they struck stormy weather!
+
+
+VII
+
+    Dickory, dickory, dock,
+    The ticker reported the stock,
+      Each bull a bear,
+      Brokers, beware
+    Dickory, dickory, dock!
+
+
+VIII
+
+    “Hi diddle, diddle ...”
+    “Hoorah, ich ga bibble”
+    The pawn-brokers chortle in glee ...
+    The bankers all giggle to see the fun,
+    And int’rest mounts high as can be!
+
+
+IX
+
+    Sing a song of sixpence ...
+      A suitcase full of rye ...
+    But that is meant for millionaires ...
+      The rest of us go dry!
+
+
+
+
+BEAUTY AND THE BEACH
+
+
+Once upon a time before Caesar had conquered Britain, and therefore in
+the very early days indeed, there dwelt in southern England a princess
+named Talc. Her life was pampered and happy, just like the lives of all
+the princesses who lived a long time ago. Each day she sat by the edge
+of a pool of still green water, and allowed her handmaidens to comb her
+tresses (it was in the days, you see, when ladies wore tresses where
+most modern folk wear hair).
+
+“I am very beautiful,” she remarked casually, glancing at herself in
+the pool, “but ...”
+
+“Yes, indeed, Madam,” chorused the handmaidens, who did not realize
+that she was about to say more.
+
+“Silence, wretches,” snapped the princess, squirting water at them with
+a lily white hand, and thereby mussing up her image in the pool. Then
+she continued in a low tragic tone: “I have a blemish, I tell you. My
+nose shines. Poets have written of brilliant eyes and gleaming teeth,
+but not one has mentioned a glittering nose. Therefore I know that the
+perfect nose does not shine. My beauty is ruined. Ah woe is me, ah woe
+is me!” An she bowed her head forward, sobbing so violently that she
+pulled the pigtails out of her handmaidens’ grasp.
+
+“No more,” she roared at them, as they started to reclaim the lost
+tresses. And then she sobbed as though her heart would break, “Oh my
+blemish, oh my nose, oh my nose, oh my blemish. Throw away your combs.
+I am going to tell the sea of my woe. I am going to walk along the
+cliffs. You may follow at a distance.”
+
+She sprang to her feet, and hurried to the cliffs. She looked at the
+sea roaring on the rocks below.
+
+“Oh sea,” she moaned in her grief, “what would you do if you had a nose
+and it was shiny?”
+
+As she was thus bewailing she stumbled and fell upon the smooth, soft,
+chalky cliffs. When she lifted herself up she found that her hands were
+covered with a white dust.
+
+“Arabella!” she called to her handmaiden, “bring me a bowl of water.”
+
+Talc looked into the glassy surface of the water. Lo and behold her
+nose no longer shone, but was white with a thick opaque whiteness!
+
+“My beauty!” she exulted, “my beauty has returned! Arabella, you may
+get the comb and continue in the making of my royal pigtails. Neither
+my nose nor my chin shines. I am truly beautiful.” And she rejoiced
+until the tears flowed down her face, making furrows in their whiteness.
+
+And thereafter each morning the princess and her handmaidens could be
+seen prostrate upon the cliff, solemnly rubbing their noses in its
+smooth dust.
+
+
+
+
+SENSATIONS OF SWINBURNING
+
+
+    I fly through the air ...
+    Ah where, tell me where
+    Shall I land, when I drop?
+    Shall I splash? Shall I flop?
+    When I plunge in the sea ...
+    Will the waves cover me?
+    Pause I here on the brink ...
+    Will I float? Will I sink
+    Through the green, glassy waves ...
+    Through the myriad of deep...?
+    When I die, shall I sleep ...
+    In the murm’ring sea caves?
+    Pray, is life fair enough...?
+    Shall I plunge from the bluff
+    Take the ultimate jump?
+    And land there ...
+            ... with a thump?
+
+
+
+
+DAY DREAMS
+
+
+“We had a table cloth, as white as the paint on the wall beside my
+kitchen stove, when it was new, five years ago. Ice tinkled in the
+glasses, but I saw every glass cloud up to hide the ice, because it
+costs an awful lot these days: They brought the turkey in,--it must
+have weighed twelve pounds. Its brown breast was so fat it seemed about
+to burst. It sizzled. Um. Then came the cranberry, all red and clear
+and quivery from its mold. A pianola played all the time, and we danced
+on the swell white tiles up to the cashier’s desk.
+
+“I had on a picture hat, black velvet, trimmed with fur and cloth of
+gold, just like a movie star--that’s how I felt. Say, ain’t it queer,
+the things you dream about?”
+
+A half a loaf of bread lay awry on a crumby and rumpled and mended
+table cloth where the breakfast dishes were stacked in crooked piles.
+The room was dark ... an oil stove in the corner made the hot air
+heavier. On the tubs, wrapped in towels, a tiny baby lay. The mother
+was speaking: and trying to wipe the wisps of hair out of her heavy
+eyes. She said: “Say, ain’t it queer the things you dream about?”
+
+
+
+
+RAIN IN THE CITY AT NIGHT
+
+
+    The streets are black.
+    They shine.
+    And every light,
+    From lamp-post and from store,
+    Makes a golden path
+    Across the street.
+
+    Drops of rain
+    Spatter,
+    And trickle down
+    The glowing window panes.
+
+    Red and yellow,
+    With silver frosting.
+    That’s all that I can see
+    In the windows.
+
+
+
+
+CHRISTMAS
+
+
+Christmas doesn’t come on the twenty-fifth of December. It begins
+with the first cold, snappy day, when ladies, fur-coated, and with
+unaccustomed red noses patter down Broadway. Tall fragrant pine trees,
+their branches roped in, are piled on the curbs. There are little
+stacks of very, very green stands, leaning against a box of rosy
+cheeked apples. Delivery boys bustle about, much more energetically
+than ever before. In the windows cauliflowers and half frozen beets
+cuddle in a bed of red crepe paper in an attempt to keep warm and
+cheerful. Next door the fish-man has garnished his wares with holly and
+eked a “Merry Christmas” on the frosty window pane. On the corner the
+Salvation Army girl stamps to keep warm and tinkles her little bell.
+
+And it’s not even December twenty-fourth!
+
+
+
+
+A ROMANTIC ADVENTURE INTO RELIGION
+
+
+    Once upon a time there
+    Was a little
+    Girl.
+    And she never read the
+    Bible, and when her fond parents
+    Decided that she ought to be
+    Religiously educated, she
+    Rebelled, and on Sundays developed
+    Colds--and so forth.
+    But--
+    When anyone mentioned
+    Saul or
+    Rachel or
+    Anything, she felt
+    Uncomfortable
+    And blushed
+    And giggled
+    And tried to
+    Change the subject, which
+    She couldn’t always do.
+
+    And everyone accused her of not
+    “Having religion”
+    Until she fully
+    Believed it.
+
+    Bye and bye
+    When she grew older she
+    Began to wonder
+
+    What this =religion=
+    That everybody thought so much about--
+    That preachers preached about--
+    That revivalists ranted about--
+    Is.
+
+    And when she asked
+    People
+    Some carefully stroked their beards
+    And thoughtfully cleaned their spectacles
+    And said:--“It is
+    The divine life in the human soul” whatever
+    That is.
+    And some
+    Sat up straight
+    And promptly answered
+    “The natural gratitude to God for creating us which makes us want
+      to obey his commands, in return,” which
+    Was clearer, but sounded too much like a
+    Bargain.
+
+    And she asked some who had been
+    Brought up on
+    Catechisms and
+    Things.
+    And they
+    Looked shocked at the
+    Question.
+
+    Perhaps because they
+    Didn’t know.
+
+    And there were many
+    More answers
+    But
+    The girl thought
+    That, as there
+    Were so many and
+    So many people had
+    Bothered about it,
+    It must be pretty
+    Important and
+    Useful.
+
+    And so she looked
+    Up in card indices and
+    Read many
+    Deep books
+    And had many
+    Deep discussions
+    And things.
+
+    Finally she decided
+    That
+    Religion is a very
+    Personal thing,
+    And so
+    There couldn’t be a
+    Single definition for
+    Everyone.
+
+    But as for herself, she
+    Considered it
+    One’s idea of perfection,
+    The attempt to live up to this idea as an ideal,
+
+    And
+
+    One’s attitude toward the world in trying to do this.
+
+    And as for the ways of “getting religion”
+    She could not believe
+    That this should be
+    Thrust upon a poor defenseless
+    Babe, or that a mean advantage should be
+    Taken of his
+    Youth
+    By his parents, in biasing his
+    Later saner judgment by
+    Prejudicing him in favor of certain
+    Opinions that They
+    Happened to have.
+
+    She did not mean
+    That one should not read the
+    Bible, or obey general morals or
+    Know who Rachel was or
+    Be as uneducated, as
+    She. She meant that one should be
+    Left to oneself,
+    When it comes to thinking out
+    What his Motive in life,
+    And
+    Conception of perfection, and
+    Explanation of the big whys of
+    Life, and
+    Things
+    Like that
+    Are.
+
+    For one must get an
+    Understanding of such
+    Things
+    (If one is to have a =real= understanding of them)
+    Either through
+    Much theory,
+    Or better,
+    By the experience which only
+    Living gives--
+    If you get what I mean.
+
+    But,
+    Thought the girl,
+    What is the use of
+    Worrying
+    About things like that
+    Anyhow?
+
+    And then she
+    Realized how
+    People always turn toward
+    Religion
+    When they are in
+    Trouble; as the
+    Religious revival in
+    Europe now
+    Shows.
+    And she realized the
+    Comfort that they
+    Get
+    From it.
+    And after all
+    It is only natural that when
+    Material things
+    And means toward the real end
+    Go wrong,
+    And one feels blue,
+    That one should try to
+    Look ahead
+    And beyond
+    At the =real= goal,
+    And get
+    Cheered up,
+    By the confirmation that there =is= a goal.
+    And that is one use of
+    Religion.
+
+    And besides
+    People
+    Are apt to be too
+    Materialistic, nowadays.
+    And the very presence of ideals,
+    Or recognition of their presence,
+    Will lead one
+    Beyond
+    Such narrowness
+    And
+    Such binding materialism, and so
+    Will lead to
+    Higher ideals--
+    Hence
+    Higher strivings--
+    Hence
+    A better world--
+    Which is
+    An asset in itself,
+    If you get what I
+    Mean.
+
+    And this is the
+    Real
+    Use of religion.
+
+    And with this off her mind she felt better.
+
+
+
+
+SUNDAY
+
+
+    A-top the palisades that touch the sky
+      Where friendly elms flirt with each passing cloud,
+      There let me lie--with Heaven for my shroud,
+    With Nature live, and close to Nature die.
+
+    I, too, would flirt with clouds that pass me by,
+      Holding my head aloft, my spirit proud,
+      Only by Nature’s wrath shall I be cowed,
+    Only by hand of Providence I die.
+
+    For Art we live, since Art is Nature’s toy,
+      Fashioned each man in mold almost the same ...
+      Religion, Nation, Race ... are things of name.
+    Cast these aside--God’s playthings are for joy.
+
+    Amongst the waves that vainly slap the shore,
+    Please God, help me to carry on some more.
+
+
+
+
+NEW YEAR’S DAY
+
+
+    An evening dress in a window ...
+    Sheer,
+    Crimson;
+    An ostrich fan beside it ...
+    Soft
+    Willowy.
+
+    Outside the hard cold glass,
+    A woman.
+    Pale cheeked,
+    Red nosed,
+    Clutches a furless muff
+    And pulls her frayed coat collar
+    About her scrawny neck.
+
+    Gentleman in a high hat,
+    Tan gloves,
+    Yellow cane,
+    Fur coat.
+    Buys spring flowers
+    From a dirty-faced Greek.
+
+    Confetti in long yellow streamers,
+    Lying on the grey curbstone.
+    Shivering children
+    Rolling it up.
+
+
+
+
+SILENCE
+
+
+    You think the house is silent when you’re out?
+
+    The ticking clock
+    Obtrudes its measured beat,
+    Slower than before.
+    The windows knock.
+    ’Way down the hall I hear a creaking door.
+
+    A tenseness in the air ...
+    Someone behind me.
+    Frantically I try to think ...
+    Of other things ...
+    Of anything ...
+    “This is mere nonsense ...
+    Nonsense,
+    Nonsense ...
+    The room =is= empty!”
+    Hush ...
+    What was that noise out in the hall?
+    That brushing sound...?
+    That creaking...?
+
+    Oh, how can you think
+    The house is silent when I’m here alone?
+
+
+
+
+BLUFFING
+
+
+    So that was Russian Art--A blotch of red
+    And yellow flames, and towers childishly
+    Drawn in thick lines, and curved as though the walls
+    Were falling in. Scores and scores of these
+    Were crowded in a narrow frame, thick piled
+    That left us stunned, amazed--we could not guess
+    From the queer Russian signs and mumbled words
+    What we were meant to think the show was for.
+
+    But going out, we coughed importantly
+    And then we said “Here’s a new tone in Art.”
+
+    While inwardly we wondered what =that= meant.
+
+
+
+
+THE DELICATESSEN SHOP
+
+
+    You must have noticed, on a Sunday night,
+    The line of husbands, forming on the right, ...
+    A bent old fogey, and a spatted fop
+    Are rubbing shoulders in the crowded shop
+    Where lurid signs proclaim a pale green tea
+    Or shriek in praise of chicken fricassee.
+
+    Furtively they take their places in line
+    And meditate the where-withall to dine ...
+    Then whisper it quite deprecatingly,
+    And steal away as humble as can be!
+
+
+
+
+LISTENING IN.
+
+(Recess in a College Corridor)
+
+
+Footsteps paced down the hall--slow, meditative footsteps, with long
+intervals between them. Then there was a swish of skirts, and little
+pattering taps on the hard marble. Then both footsteps stopped, and
+I heard a high treble tittering, and a deep long-drawn out, but
+kindly roar. There was a clatter as though books had fallen on the
+floor--another titter, and rather a bored basso sigh. A bell rang.
+The pattering and swishing recommenced and faded out of earshot. The
+steady, determined strides drew nearer and nearer--and by that time the
+second bell had rung--and the door was slowly opened.
+
+
+
+
+MT. RIGA ROAD
+
+
+    If I could draw--
+                      The country lies
+    A beacon to my pointed pen,
+    Enticing me to sketch again,
+    Or paint the colored twilight skies.
+
+    If I could play--
+                          I’d harmonize
+    The babbling brooks in mossy glen
+    Or sing the whispered words of men
+    Or wordless songs in misty eyes.
+
+    I wish that God had given to me
+    Expression that real artists show ...
+    The power to understand and see,
+    Uplifted by the will to know.
+
+    Instead, I write my paltry stint,
+    Which usually isn’t fit to print.
+
+
+
+
+RAIN
+
+
+    Here’s the pool, close to the lake
+      Where the humming rainbow flies
+      Seek their prey with myriad eyes,
+    Where the maple, touched with red,
+      Bends across the dusty pool,
+      Bathing in its welcome cool,
+    Sunspots break the veil of leaves
+      Like diluted drops of gold,
+      Cloud the pool with dust-like mold.
+
+    Now the sunspots fade away.
+      Buzzing flies hum louder still,
+      Tense the air hangs damp and chill,
+    And the maple’s glittering leaves
+      Turn their silver-frosted backs
+      To the wind. A pine-tree cracks.
+    On its breast the first rain falls.
+      Drops like pebbles sharply pelt,
+      Widen to a ring, and melt.
+
+
+
+
+GROWING PAINS
+
+
+    When I was a rosy, wide-eyed child
+    And the world was new to me
+    I tried to explore it with searching eyes
+    That knew no secrecy.
+    And I came one day, in my wanderings,
+    On a curtain of green and gold
+    With the deepest colors reflected in
+    Each mysterious fold.
+    And I tried to break through it, and tried to go ’round
+    To pluck at the colors that shone,
+    But as I reached toward it, it vanished away.
+    And I cried in the forest, alone.
+
+    Seven years passed, e’er I saw it again,
+    All proud in my new-found teens ...
+    But I passed by the gate with a haughty glance,
+    And I scoffed at its beckoning greens.
+
+    Seven years more, and I find it again,
+    In my own private fairy wood.
+    Its shimmering colors, and sun-flecked hues
+    Call me, as naught else could.
+
+    The gates are translucent. There, tinted with rose,
+    Is the sapphire blue of a cloudless day ...
+    And I know there are reaped the harvests of love,
+    And I know there the children of happiness play.
+
+    But I know that for me the gate is shut ...
+    And I feel that I trespass on hallowed ground,
+    So I fix my eyes on the stones below,
+    And I follow the lone path, homeward bound.
+
+
+
+
+ADOLESCENCE
+
+
+    Childlike still, we gaze at fleeting fairy thoughts,
+    Childlike still, we cast pale shadows in the air--
+    Civilized imaginations--weakling sparks
+    That we’ve folded fast in words--and buried there.
+
+    Look: A school of doves on silver-frosted wings
+    Hold the sunshine for a moment as they fly,
+    Toss a vagrant shaft of sunbeams in the air
+    As they float across a shining turquoise sky.
+
+    For a moment there’s the glitter of their wings ...
+    Just a moment ... then the sunbeam melts away
+    And the happy brightness of the turquoise sky
+    Has faded, like their silver wings, to grey.
+
+
+
+
+TO--
+
+
+    Glorious love, if the passion were thine,
+    To thee I would open my heart and myself;
+    Yours is the spirit to whom I’d resign,
+    Yours are the arms I would rest in, in sleep.
+
+    Yours is the face I would look to for help,
+    Yours are the hopes that would buoy me, until
+    After our labors had won, or had failed,
+    Yours are the thoughts that would guide me on still.
+
+
+
+
+FRAGMENT
+
+
+    Glorious Virgin, thine the light ...
+      The spark-fire of maternal love ...
+    Of thine own self, hast thou made
+      A Living God, thy Monument.
+
+
+
+
+TO MARIE
+
+
+    Such a dainty little miss
+        Is Marie,
+    Whom I love to pet and kiss ...
+        Sweet Marie!
+    Auburn hair in sunny wave,
+    Freckled face, now sad, now grave ...
+    Would you teach me to behave ...
+        Dear Marie?
+
+    You’ve culled learning from deep books
+        Fair Marie,
+    A Phi Beta ... and such looks!
+        Oh Marie!
+    That you set my heart a-flutter,
+    Not the wise words that you utter ...
+    It’s your charm that makes me stutter ...
+        My Marie!
+
+    But though lyrics I indite you,
+        Fair Marie,
+    Ardent love letters I write you,
+        Still Marie,
+    You prefer to let me pine, dear,
+    Lonely hours have been mine, dear.
+    Oh your art is superfine, dear,
+        Dear Marie!
+
+    But I never give up hope,
+        Of Marie,
+    Liberally I hand soft soap
+        To Marie ...
+    For I know when I grow older,
+    And my beaux affairs grow bolder ...
+    By her tactics, I’ll be colder
+        Than Marie!
+
+
+
+
+FREUDIANISMS
+
+
+Then the fish all turn into girls, and the shimmery tale of the
+goldfish-in-chief changes into dance slippers. Soon her voice begins to
+call to you. It grows louder and louder. At last you realized that she
+is saying--
+
+“Eight o’clock--time to get up!”
+
+You heave a sleepy sigh and look at the clock. It says “eight o’clock”
+but it is probably fast. You turn over and try to remember that dream
+about goldfish. Or was it girls? Girls or goldfish? Goldfish or girls?
+They both begin with “g”. Queer, “g.” Stands for “goloshes” and
+“grapes” and “gloves” and--
+
+“Ten minutes past eight.”
+
+“All right,” you drone dutifully. (But you know it isn’t all right).
+
+You turn on your back and stare at the ceiling. There is no use
+in getting up yet. You would spend so much time just dressing and
+undressing. Think of the hours people spend in clothing themselves. If
+all those minutes were laid end to end they would probably reach from
+their elbows to--
+
+And then the door bell rings, and someone says something about mail.
+
+Mail!
+
+That’s different.
+
+In a minute you are up and rushing into the hall-way.
+
+“Mail!”
+
+
+
+
+THE OLD MAN SPEAKS
+
+
+    I dare not come to you with virile phrase
+        To tell you to give heed to what I say:
+        To live your life in age-instructed way,
+    To light your dawn with sunset’s fading rays.
+
+    I dare not wish to live again my days.
+        I, too, was careless when birds sang in May,
+        I loved to wander on the primrose way,
+    Untaught, I crashed through life’s conflicting maze.
+
+    Reverance, sanctity, and holy awe,
+        Your body’s kingdom, and your soul the king.
+        These are the messages of God I bring,
+    To keep your holiness without a flaw.
+
+        God gave to you the priceless gift of youth,
+        And I, unheeded, offer you mere truth.
+
+
+
+
+BALLADE FOR MORALISTS
+
+
+    Sing me a lilting, laughing song,
+      Some spritely, springtime roundelay,
+    That’s not too burdensome or long ...
+      That hasn’t got too much to say.
+      O sing of goblin, elf or fay,
+    And deck your verse with imagery
+      Just this remember: Make it gay ...
+    O poet, do not preach to me!
+
+    Weave me weird tales of old Hong Kong,
+      Of China, or of far Cathay,
+    With pig-tailed heroes, called Hoo Chong
+      Who struggle in a tyrant’s sway.
+      Be sure the setting of your lay
+    (If it should end unpleasantly)
+      Be very, very far away ...
+    O poet, do not preach to me!
+
+    If to some antique, classic wrong
+      Poetic tribute you would pay ...
+    Resound some martyr’s funeral gong ...
+      Awake the tears of yesterday ...
+      I am not one to bid you nay,
+    But this I beg you earnestly
+      Don’t tack a moral to your lay ...
+    O poet, do not preach to me!
+
+
+L’envoi
+
+    I only hope some poet may
+      Read this, and act accordingly,
+    Not tear into bits, and say:
+      “O poet, do not preach to me!”
+
+
+
+
+HEAVEN, AT LAST
+
+
+I staggered up the last step of the golden stairs and stood puffing and
+gasping. St. Peter came over to me and flapped his wings in my face.
+I noticed that the wings were all lettered--A.B.C.D.--I didn’t look
+further.
+
+“Your admittance ticket,” he growled, and gloatingly fingered his keys.
+The largest was square and shiny--a Phi Beta Kappa Key.
+
+I pulled a crumpled sheet of 8-¹⁄₂×11 paper from my pocket. St. Peter
+took it, slowly looked at it upside down, then sideways, then right
+side up.
+
+“Un-huh,” said St. Peter at last, with celestial vagueness, “Un-huh,”
+he repeated wisely.
+
+“May I ...” I whispered.
+
+St. Peter turned around slowly, showing me a great expanse of wing.
+
+“Close your eyes,” he said, “and pull out a feather, and while you are
+about it, take one for each of your little friends.”
+
+“I can’t see which one to choose, if I close my eyes,” I objected most
+knowingly.
+
+“It doesn’t make any difference which one you choose,” said St. Peter,
+“I only give them out as souvenirs. A feather doesn’t really help you
+to fly. It just gives you confidence. The rest is up to you.”
+
+
+
+
+THE FUTURE
+
+
+    Far in the depths of the dark green sea
+    A forest of scrawny weeds
+    Imprisons a giant and holds him fast,
+        Twine themselves round his knotted hand
+        And chain him down to their sunless land
+    Where the waves rush raging past.
+
+    His face is hard with deep’ning lines,
+    And his eyes are glazed with slime,
+    Yet, deep in his heart there grows a hope
+    That he will be freed by time.
+
+    He is the God of Things to Be,
+    Chained to the floor of the thoughtless sea.
+
+
+
+
+Transcriber’s note
+
+
+Minor punctuation errors have been changed without notice.
+Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized where appropriate.
+
+
+  Page 9: “rogueishly uses them”       “roguishly uses them”
+
+
+
+
+
+
+*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75356 ***