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Title: Grimm Tales Made Gay
Author: Carryl, Guy Wetmore, 1873-1904
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.
Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

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  [Illustration: _This shows the sword that Blue-Beard used full sore,
                 After he'd led his young wife to a door._]










  _Published in October, 1902_




  _I have pleasure in acknowledging the courteous permission of
  the editors to reprint in this form such of these verses as were
  originally published in Harper's Magazine, The Century, Life, The
  Smart Set, The Saturday Evening Post, The Home Magazine, and the
  London Tatler.
             G. W. C._



  The Contents






















  _How the Babes in the Wood Showed They Couldn't be Beaten_

  A man of kind and noble mind
    Was H. Gustavus Hyde.
  'Twould be amiss to add to this
    At present, for he died,
  In full possession of his senses,
  The day before my tale commences.


  One half his gold his four-year-old
    Son Paul was known to win,
  And Beatrix, whose age was six,
    For all the rest came in,
  Perceiving which, their Uncle Ben did
  A thing that people said was splendid.

  For by the hand he took them, and
    Remarked in accents smooth:
  "One thing I ask. Be mine the task
    These stricken babes to soothe!
  My country home is really charming:
  I'll teach them all the joys of farming."


  One halcyon week they fished his creek,
    And watched him do the chores,
  In haylofts hid, and, shouting, slid
    Down sloping cellar doors:--
  Because this life to bliss was equal
  The more distressing is the sequel.

  Concealing guile beneath a smile,
    He took them to a wood,
  And, with severe and most austere
    Injunctions to be good,
  He left them seated on a gateway,
  And took his own departure straightway.


  Though much afraid, the children stayed
    From ten till nearly eight;
  At times they wept, at times they slept,
    But never left the gate:
  Until the swift suspicion crossed them
  That Uncle Benjamin had lost them.


  Then, quite unnerved, young Paul observed:
    "It's like a dreadful dream,
  And Uncle Ben has fallen ten
    Per cent. in my esteem.
  Not only did he first usurp us,
  But now he's left us here on purpose!"

       *       *       *       *       *

  For countless years their childish fears
    Have made the reader pale,
  For countless years the public's tears
    Have started at the tale,
  For countless years much detestation
  Has been expressed for their relation.

  So draw a veil across the dale
    Where stood that ghastly gate.
  No need to tell. You know full well
    What was their touching fate,
  And how with leaves each little dead breast
  Was covered by a Robin Redbreast!

  But when they found them on the ground,
    Although their life had ceased,
  Quite near to Paul there lay a small
    White paper, neatly creased.
  "_Because of lack of any merit,
  B. Hyde_," it ran, "_we disinherit_!"

  _The Moral_: If you deeply long
  To punish one who's done you wrong,
  Though in your lifetime fail you may,
  Where there's a will, there is a way!

  _How Fair Cinderella Disposed of Her Shoe_

  The vainest girls in forty states
  Were Gwendolyn and Gladys Gates;
  They warbled, slightly off the air,
    Romantic German songs,
  And each of them upon her hair
    Employed the curling tongs,
  And each with ardor most intense
    Her buxom figure laced,
  Until her wilful want of sense
    Procured a woeful waist:
  For bound to marry titled mates
  Were Gwendolyn and Gladys Gates.


  Yet, truth to tell, the swains were few
  Of Gwendolyn (and Gladys, too).
  So morning, afternoon, and night
    Upon their sister they
  Were wont to vent their selfish spite,
    And in the rudest way:
  For though her name was Leonore,
    That's neither there nor here,
  They called her Cinderella, for
    The kitchen was her sphere,
  Save when the hair she had to do
  Of Gwendolyn (and Gladys, too).


  Each night to dances and to _fêtes_
  Went Gwendolyn and Gladys Gates,
  And Cinderella watched them go
    In silks and satins clad:
  A prince invited them, and so
    They put on all they had!
  But one fine night, as all alone
    She watched the flames leap higher,
  A small and stooping fairy crone
    Stept nimbly from the fire.
  Said she: "The pride upon me grates
  Of Gwendolyn and Gladys Gates."

  "I'll now," she added, with a frown,
  "Call Gwendolyn and Gladys down!"
  And, ere your fingers you could snap,
    There stood before the door
  No paltry hired horse and trap,
    Oh, no!--a coach and four!
  And Cinderella, fitted out
    Regardless of expense,
  Made both her sisters look about
    Like thirty-seven cents!
  The prince, with one look at her gown,
  Turned Gwendolyn and Gladys down!


  Wall-flowers, when thus compared with her,
  Both Gwendolyn and Gladys were.
  The prince but gave them glances hard,
    No gracious word he said;
  He scratched their names from off his card,
    And wrote hers down instead:
  And where he would bestow his hand
    He showed them in a trice
  By handing her the kisses, and
    To each of them an ice!
  In sudden need of fire and fur
  Both Gwendolyn and Gladys were.


  At ten o'clock, in discontent,
  Both Gwendolyn and Gladys went.
  Their sister stayed till after two,
    And, with a joy sincere,
  The prince obtained her crystal shoe
    By way of souvenir.
  "Upon the bridal path," he cried,
    "We'll reign together! Since
  I love you, you must be my bride!"
    (He was no slouch, that prince!)
  And into sudden languishment
  Both Gwendolyn and Gladys went.

  _The Moral_: All the girls on earth
  Exaggerate their proper worth.
  They think the very shoes they wear
  Are worth the average millionaire;
  Whereas few pairs in any town
  Can be half-sold for half a crown!


  _How Little Red Riding Hood Came to be Eaten_

  Most worthy of praise
  Were the virtuous ways
    Of Little Red Riding Hood's Ma,
  And no one was ever
  More cautious and clever
    Than Little Red Riding Hood's Pa.
  They never misled,
  For they meant what they said,
    And would frequently say what they meant,
  And the way she should go
  They were careful to show,
    And the way that they showed her, she went.
  For obedience she was effusively thanked,
  And for anything else she was carefully spanked.



  It thus isn't strange
  That Red Riding Hood's range
    Of virtues so steadily grew,
  That soon she won prizes
  Of different sizes,
    And golden encomiums, too!
  As a general rule
  She was head of her school,
    And at six was so notably smart
  That they gave her a cheque
  For reciting "The Wreck
    Of the Hesperus," wholly by heart!
  And you all will applaud her the more, I am sure,
  When I add that this money she gave to the poor.

  At eleven this lass
  Had a Sunday-school class,
    At twelve wrote a volume of verse,
  At thirteen was yearning
  For glory, and learning
    To be a professional nurse.
  To a glorious height
  The young paragon might
    Have grown, if not nipped in the bud,
  But the following year
  Struck her smiling career
    With a dull and a sickening thud!
  (I have shed a great tear at the thought of her pain,
  And must copy my manuscript over again!)


  Not dreaming of harm,
  One day on her arm
    A basket she hung. It was filled
  With jellies, and ices,
  And gruel, and spices,
    And chicken-legs, carefully grilled,
  And a savory stew,
  And a novel or two
    She'd persuaded a neighbor to loan,
  And a hot-water can,
  And a Japanese fan,
    And a bottle of _eau-de-cologne_,
  And the rest of the things that your family fill
  Your room with, whenever you chance to be ill!

  She expected to find
  Her decrepit but kind
    Old Grandmother waiting her call,
  But the visage that met her
  Completely upset her:
    It wasn't familiar at all!
  With a whitening cheek
  She started to speak,
    But her peril she instantly saw:--
  Her Grandma had fled,
  And she'd tackled instead
    Four merciless Paws and a Maw!
  When the neighbors came running, the wolf to subdue,
  He was licking his chops, (and Red Riding Hood's, too!)

  [Illustration: _This shows the bad wolf that came out of the wood,
                 And proved by his actions to be robbin' Hood._]

  At this terrible tale
  Some readers will pale,
    And others with horror grow dumb,
  And yet it was better,
  I fear, he should get her:
    Just think what she might have become!
  For an infant so keen
  Might in future have been
    A woman of awful renown,
  Who carried on fights
  For her feminine rights
    As the Mare of an Arkansas town.
  She might have continued the crime of her 'teens,
  And come to write verse for the Big Magazines!


  _The Moral_: There's nothing much glummer
    Than children whose talents appall:
  One much prefers those who are dumber,
    But as for the paragons small,
  If a swallow cannot make a summer
    It can bring on a summary fall!


  _How the Fatuous Wish of a Peasant Came True_

  An excellent peasant,
  Of character pleasant,
    Once lived in a hut with his wife.
  He was cheerful and docile,
  But such an old fossil
    You wouldn't meet twice in your life.
  His notions were all without reason or rhyme,
  Such dullness in any one else were a crime,
    But the folly pig-headed
  To which he was wedded
  Was so deep imbedded,
        it touched the sublime!


  He frequently stated
  Such quite antiquated
    And singular doctrines as these:
  _"Do good unto others!
  All men are your brothers!"_
    (Of course he forgot the Chinese!)
  He said that all men were made equal and free,
  (That's true if they're born on _our_ side of the sea!)
    That truth should be spoken,
  And pledges unbroken:
  (Now where, by that token,
        would most of us be?)


  One day, as his pottage
  He ate in his cottage,
    A fairy stepped up to the door;
  Upon it she hammered,
  And meekly she stammered:
    "A morsel of food I implore."
  He gave her sardines, and a biscuit or two,
  And she said in reply, when her luncheon was through,
    "In return for these dishes
  Of bread and of fishes
  The first of your wishes
        I'll make to come true!"

  That nincompoop peasant
  Accepted the present,
    (As most of us probably would,)
  And, thinking her bounty
  To turn to account, he
    Said: "_Now_ I'll do somebody good!
  I won't ask a thing for myself or my wife,
  But I'll make all my neighbors with happiness rife.
    Whate'er their conditions,
    Henceforward, physicians
    And indispositions
        they're rid of for life!"


  These words energetic
  The fairy's prophetic
    Announcement brought instantly true:
  With singular quickness
  Each victim of sickness
    Was made over, better than new,
  And people who formerly thought they were doomed
  With almost obstreperous healthiness bloomed,
    And each had some platitude,
    Teeming with gratitude,
    For the new attitude
        life had assumed.


  Our friend's satisfaction
  Concerning his action
    Was keen, but exceedingly brief.
  The wrathful condition
  Of every physician
    In town was surpassing belief!
  Professional nurses were plunged in despair,
  And chemists shook passionate fists in the air:
    They called at his dwelling,
    With violence swelling,
    His greeting repelling
        with arrogant stare.


  They beat and they battered,
  They slammed and they shattered,
    And did him such serious harm,
  That, after their labors,
  His wife told the neighbors
    They'd caused her excessive alarm!
  They then set to work on his various ills,
  And plied him with liniments, powders, and pills,
    And charged him so dearly
    That all of them nearly
    Made double the yearly
        amount of their bills.

  _This Moral_ by the tale is taught:--
  The wish is father to the thought.
  (We'd oftentimes escape the worst
  If but the thinking part came first!)

  How Hop O' My Thumb Got Rid of an Onus


  A worthy couple, man and wife,
  Dragged on a discontented life:
    The reason, I should state,
  That it was destitute of joys,
  Was that they had a dozen boys
    To feed and educate,
  And nothing such patience demands
  As having twelve boys on your hands!


  For twenty years they tried their best
  To keep those urchins neatly dressed
    And teach them to be good,
  But so much labor it involved
  That, in the end, they both resolved
    To lose them in a wood,
  Though nothing a parent annoys
  Like heartlessly losing his boys!

  So when their sons had gone to bed,
  Though bitter tears the couple shed,
    They laid their little plan.
  "_Faut b'en que ça s'fasse. Quand même_,"
  The woman said, "_J'en suis tout' blème._"
    "_Ça colle!_" observed the man,
  "_Mais ça coute, que ces gosses fichus!
  B'en, quoi! Faut qu'i's soient perdus!_"

  (I've quite omitted to explain
  That they were natives of Touraine;
    I see I must translate.)
  "Of course it must be done, and still,"
  The wife remarked, "it makes me ill."
    "You bet!" replied her mate:
  "But we've both of us counted the cost,
  And the kids simply _have_ to be lost!"


  But, while they plotted, every word
  The youngest of the urchins heard,
    And winked the other eye;
  His height was only two feet three.
  (I might remark, in passing, he
    Was little, but O My!)
  He added: "I'd better keep mum."
  (He was foxy, was Hop O' My Thumb!)


  They took the boys into the wood,
  And lost them, as they said they should,
    And came in silence back.
  Alas for them! Hop O' My Thumb
  At every step had dropped a crumb,
    And so retraced the track.
  While the parents sat mourning their fate
  He led the boys in at the gate!

  He placed his hand upon his heart,
  And said: "You think you're awful smart,
    But I have foiled you thus!"
  His parents humbly bent the knee,
  And meekly said: "H. O. M. T.,
    You're one too much for us!"
  And both of them solemnly swore
  "We won't never do so no more!"


  _The Moral_ is: While I do not
  Endeavor to condone the plot,
    I still maintain that one
  Should have no chance of being foiled,
  And having one's arrangements spoiled
    By one's ingenious son.
  If you turn down your children, with pain,
  Take care they don't turn up again!

  How the Helpmate of Blue-Beard Made Free with a Door


  A maiden from the Bosphorus,
  With eyes as bright as phosphorus,
    Once wed the wealthy bailiff
                    Of the caliph
                          Of Kelat.
  Though diligent and zealous, he
  Became a slave to jealousy.
    (Considering her beauty,
                    'Twas his duty
                          To be that!)

  When business would necessitate
  A journey, he would hesitate,
    But, fearing to disgust her,
                    He would trust her
                          With his keys,
  Remarking to her prayerfully:
  "I beg you'll use them carefully.
    Don't look what I deposit
                    In that closet,
                          If you please."

  It may be mentioned, casually,
  That blue as lapis lazuli
    He dyed his hair, his lashes,
                    His mustaches,
                          And his beard.
  And, just because he did it, he
  Aroused his wife's timidity:
    Her terror she dissembled,
                    But she trembled
                          When he neared.

  [Illustration: _This shows how grim Blue-Beard, when bound on a bat,
                 Instructed his wife on the key of a flat!_]

  This feeling insalubrious
  Soon made her most lugubrious,
    And bitterly she missed her
                    Elder sister
                          Marie Anne:
  She asked if she might write her to
  Come down and spend a night or two,
    Her husband answered rightly
                    And politely:
                          "Yes, you can!"

                          Blue-Beard, the Monday following,
                          His jealous feeling swallowing,
                            Packed all his clothes together
                                           In a leather-
                                                 Bound valise,
                          And, feigning reprehensibly,
                          He started out, ostensibly
                            By traveling to learn a
                                           Bit of Smyrna
                                                 And of Greece.

  His wife made but a cursory
  Inspection of the nursery;
    The kitchen and the airy
                    Little dairy
                          Were a bore,
  As well as big or scanty rooms,
  And billiard, bath, and ante-rooms,
    But not that interdicted
                    And restricted
                          Little door!


  For, all her curiosity
  Awakened by the closet he
    So carefully had hidden,
                    And forbidden
                          Her to see,
  This damsel disobedient
  Did something inexpedient,
    And in the keyhole tiny
                    Turned the shiny
                          Little key:


  Then started back impulsively,
  And shrieked aloud convulsively--
    Three heads of girls he'd wedded
                    And beheaded
                          Met her eye!
  And turning round, much terrified,
  Her darkest fears were verified,
    For Blue-Beard stood behind her,
                    Come to find her
                          On the sly!


  Perceiving she was fated to
  Be soon decapitated, too,
    She telegraphed her brothers
                    And some others
                          What she feared.
  And Sister Anne looked out for them,
  In readiness to shout for them
    Whenever in the distance
                    With assistance
                          They appeared.

  But only from her battlement
  She saw some dust that cattle meant.
    The ordinary story
                    Isn't gory,
                          But a jest.
  But here's the truth unqualified.
  The husband _wasn't_ mollified
    Her head is in his bloody
                    Little study
                          With the rest!

  _The Moral_: Wives, we must allow,
  Who to their husbands will not bow,
  A stern and dreadful lesson learn
  When, as you've read, they're cut in turn.

  How Rumplestilz Held Out in Vain for a Bonus

  In Germany there lived an earl
    Who had a charming niece:
  And never gave the timid girl
    A single moment's peace!
  Whatever low and menial task
    His fancy flitted through,
  He did not hesitate to ask
    That shrinking child to do.
  (I see with truly honest shame you
  Are blushing, and I do not blame you.
  A tale like this the feelings softens,
  And brings the tears, as does "Two Orphans.")


  She had to wash the windows, and
    She had to scrub the floors,
  She had to lend a willing hand
    To fifty other chores:
  She gave the dog his exercise,
    She read the earl the news,
  She ironed all his evening ties,
    And polished all his shoes,
  She cleaned the tins that filled the dairy,
  She cut the claws of the canary,
  And then, at night, with manner winsome,
  When coal was wanted, carried in some!

  But though these tasks were quite enough,
    He thought them all too few,
  And so her uncle, rude and rough,
    Invented something new.
  He took her to a little room,
    Her willingness to tax,
  And pointed out a broken loom
    And half a ton of flax,
  Observing: "Spin six pairs of trousers!"
  His haughty manner seemed to rouse hers.
  She met his scornful glances proudly--


  But when the earl went down the stair
    She yielded to her fears.
  Gave way at last to grim despair,
    And melted into tears:
  When suddenly, from out the wall,
    As if he felt at home,
  There pounced a singularly small
    And much distorted gnome.
  He smiled a smile extremely vapid,
  And set to work in fashion rapid;
  No time for resting he deducted,
  And soon the trousers were constructed.


  The girl observed: "How very nice
    To help me out this way!"
  The gnome replied: "A certain price
    Of course you'll have to pay.
  I'll call to-morrow afternoon,
    My due reward to claim,
  And then you'll sing another tune
    Unless you guess my name!"
  He indicated with a gesture
  The pile of newly fashioned vesture:
  His eyes on hers a moment centered,
  And then he went, as he had entered.


  As by this tale you have been grieved
    And heartily distressed,
  Kind sir, you will be much relieved
    To know his name she guessed:

  But if I do not tell the same,
    Pray count it not a crime:--
  I've tried my best, and for that name
    I can't find any rhyme!
  Yet spare me from remarks injurious:
  I will not leave you foiled and furious.
  If something must proclaim the answer,
  And I cannot, the title can, sir!

  _The Moral_ is: All said and done,
  There's nothing new beneath the sun,
  And many times before, a title
  Was incapacity's requital!

  How Jack Made the Giants Uncommonly Sore

  Of all the ill-fated
  Boys ever created
    Young Jack was the wretchedest lad:
  An emphatic, erratic,
  Dogmatic fanatic
    Was foisted upon him as dad!
  From the time he could walk,
  And before he could talk,
    His wearisome training began,
  On a highly barbarian,
  Nearly Tartarean


  He taught him some Raleigh,
  And some of Macaulay,
    Till all of "Horatius" he knew,
  And the drastic, sarcastic,
  Fantastic, scholastic
    Philippics of "Junius," too.
  He made him learn lots
  Of the poems of Watts,
    And frequently said he ignored,
  On principle, any son's
  Title to benisons
  Till he'd learned Tennyson's

  "For these are the giants
  Of thought and of science,"
    He said in his positive way:
  "So weigh them, obey them,
  Display them, and lay them
    To heart in your infancy's day!"
  Jack made no reply,
  But he said on the sly
    An eloquent word, that had come
  From a quite indefensible,
  Most reprehensible,
  But indispensable

  By the time he was twenty
  Jack had such a plenty
    Of books and paternal advice,
  Though seedy and needy,
  Indeed he was greedy
    For vengeance, whatever the price!
  In the editor's seat
  Of a critical sheet
    He found the revenge that he sought;
  And, with sterling appliance of
  Mind, wrote defiance of
  All of the giants of

  He'd thunder and grumble
  At high and at humble
    Until he became, in a while,
  Mordacious, pugnacious,
  Rapacious. Good gracious!
    They called him the Yankee Carlyle!
  But he never took rest
  On his quarrelsome quest
    Of the giants, both mighty and small.
  He slated, distorted them,
  Hanged them and quartered them,
  Till he had slaughtered them

  And this is _The Moral_ that lies in the verse:
  If you have a go farther, you're apt to fare worse.
  (When you turn it around it is different rather:--
  You're not apt to go worse if you have a fair father!)


  How Rudeness and Kindness Were Justly Rewarded

  Once on a time, long years ago
    (Just when I quite forget),
  Two maidens lived beside the Po,
    One blonde and one brunette.
  The blonde one's character was mild,
  From morning until night she smiled,
  Whereas the one whose hair was brown
  Did little else than pine and frown.
    (_I_ think one ought to draw the line
    At girls who always frown and pine!)

  The blonde one learned to play the harp,
    Like all accomplished dames,
  And trained her voice to take _C_ sharp
    As well as Emma Eames;
  Made baskets out of scented grass,
  And paper-weights of hammered brass,
  And lots of other odds and ends
  For gentleman and lady friends.
    (_I_ think it takes a deal of sense
    To manufacture gifts for gents!)

  The dark one wore an air of gloom,
    Proclaimed the world a bore,
  And took her breakfast in her room
    Three mornings out of four.
  With crankiness she seemed imbued,
  And everything she said was rude:
  She sniffed, and sneered, and, what is more,
  When very much provoked, she swore!
    (_I_ think that I could never care
    For any girl who'd learned to swear!)

  One day the blonde was striding past
    A forest, all alone,
  When all at once her eyes she cast
    Upon a wrinkled crone,
  Who tottered near with shaking knees,
  And said: "A penny, if you please!"
  And you will learn with some surprise
  This was a fairy in disguise!
    (_I_ think it must be hard to know
    A fairy who's incognito!)

  The maiden filled her trembling palms
    With coinage of the realm.
  The fairy said: "Take back your alms!
    My heart they overwhelm.
  Henceforth at every word shall slip
  A pearl or ruby from your lip!"
  And, when the girl got home that night,--
  She found the fairy's words were right!
    (_I_ think there are not many girls
    Whose words are worth their weight in pearls!)


  It happened that the cross brunette,
    Ten minutes later, came
  Along the self-same road, and met
    That bent and wrinkled dame,
  Who asked her humbly for a sou.
  The girl replied: "Get out with you!"
  The fairy cried: "Each word you drop,
  A toad from out your mouth shall hop!"
    (_I_ think that nothing incommodes
    One's speech like uninvited toads!)

  And so it was, the cheerful blonde
    Lived on in joy and bliss,
  And grew pecunious, beyond
    The dreams of avarice!
  And to a nice young man was wed,
  And I have often heard it said
  No other man who ever walked
  Most loved his wife when most she talked!
    (_I_ think this very fact, forsooth,
    Goes far to prove I tell the truth!)

  The cross brunette the fairy's joke
    By hook or crook survived,
  But still at every word she spoke
    An ugly toad arrived,
  Until at last she had to come
  To feigning she was wholly dumb,
  Whereat the suitors swarmed around,
  And soon a wealthy mate she found.
    (_I_ think nobody ever knew
    The happier husband of the two!)

  _The Moral_ of the tale is: Bah!
  _Nous avons changé tout celà._
  No clear idea I hope to strike
  Of what _your_ nicest girl is like,
  But she whose best young man _I_ am
  Is not an oyster, nor a clam!

  [Illustration: _This shows why each suitor, who rode up to spark,
                 Would mark the toad maybe, but ne'er toed the mark._]

  How Beauty Contrived to Get Square with the Beast

  Miss Guinevere Platt
  Was so beautiful that
    She couldn't remember the day
  When one of her swains
  Hadn't taken the pains
    To send her a mammoth bouquet.
  And the postman had found,
  On the whole of his round,
    That no one received such a lot
  Of bulky epistles
  As, waiting his whistles,
    The beautiful Guinevere got!


  A significant sign
  That her charm was divine
    Was seen in society, when
  The chaperons sniffed
  With their eyebrows alift:
    "Whatever's got into the men?"
  There was always a man
  Who was holding her fan,
    And twenty that danced in details,
  And a couple of mourners,
  Who brooded in corners,
    And gnawed their mustaches and nails.

  John Jeremy Platt
  Wouldn't stay in the flat,
    For his beautiful daughter he missed:
  When he'd taken his tub,
  He would hie to his club,
    And dally with poker or whist.
  At the end of a year
  It was perfectly clear
    That he'd never computed the cost,
  For he hadn't a penny
  To settle the many
    Ten thousands of dollars he'd lost!

  F. Ferdinand Fife
  Was a student of life:
    He was coarse, and excessively fat,
  With a beard like a goat's,
  But he held all the notes
    Of ruined John Jeremy Platt!
  With an adamant smile
  That was brimming with guile,
    He said: "I am took with the face
  Of your beautiful daughter,
  And wed me she ought ter,
    To save you from utter disgrace!"

  Miss Guinevere Platt
  Didn't hesitate at
    Her duty's imperative call.
  When they looked at the bride
  All the chaperons cried:
    "She isn't so bad, after all!"
  Of the desolate men
  There were something like ten
    Who took up political lives,
  And the flower of the flock
  Went and fell off a dock,
    And the rest married hideous wives!


  But the beautiful wife
  Of F. Ferdinand Fife
    Was the wildest that ever was known:
  She'd grumble and glare,
  Till the man didn't dare
    To say that his soul was his own.
  She sneered at his ills,
  And quadrupled his bills,
    And spent nearly twice what he earned;
  Her husband deserted,
  And frivoled, and flirted,
    Till Ferdinand's reason was turned.


  He repented too late,
  And his terrible fate
    Upon him so heavily sat,
  That he swore at the day
  When he sat down to play
    At cards with John Jeremy Platt.
  He was dead in a year,
  And the fair Guinevere
    In society sparkled again,
  While the chaperons fluttered
  Their fans, as they muttered:
    "She's getting exceedingly plain!"

  _The Moral_: Predicaments often are found
  That beautiful duty is apt to get round:
  But greedy extortioners better beware
  For dutiful beauty is apt to get square!

  [Illustration: _This shows how at poker one loses his pelf
                 When the other's a joker and knave in himself._]

  How a Fair One no Hope to His Highness Accorded

  She has slid down the channels
  Of history's annals
    Disguised as the child of a king,
  But that is a glib
  And iniquitous fib,
    For she never was any such thing:
  They called her the Fair One with Golden Locks,
  And it's true she had lovers who swarmed in flocks,
  But the rest is ironic;
  Her business chronic
  Was selling hair-tonic
                    By bottle and box!

  From the dawn till the gloaming
  She used to sit combing
    Her hair in a languorous way.
  And her suitors would stop
  To look into the shop,
    And stand there the rest of the day.
  She filled them with mute, but with deep despair,
  For she never glanced up, with a smile, to where
  They stood about, crushing
  Each other, and blushing:
  She simply kept brushing
                    Her beautiful hair.

  But a prince who was passing,
  Engaged in amassing
    Some facts on American life,
  Was suddenly struck
  By the fact that his luck
    Might give him that girl for a wife!
  His rashness he didn't attempt to excuse,
  He entered the shop and he stated his views.
                "My jewel,
  I'm confident you will
  Not wish to be cruel
                    Enough to refuse.


  "Most winsome of creatures,"
  He told her, "your features
    Have led me to candidly say
  That no other beside
  Would I have for a bride:
    We'll be married a week from to-day!
  I belong to a long and a titled line,
  And the least of your wishes I won't decline;
  Next month I will usher
  My wife into Russia:--
  Sweet comber and brusher,
                    Consider you're mine!"

  She looked at him squarely,
  Considered him fairly,
    Her glance was as keen as a knife,
  Then she turned up her nose,
  And, with icy repose,
    She answered: "Well, not on your life!
  You're not on the paper the only blot!
  Do you think I come twelve in a parcel--what?
  _Me_ pose as your dearie?
  Oh, go and chase Peary!
  You're making me weary.
                    Now git!"

                    (He got!)

  [Illustration: _This shows how, with never a shadow of doubt,
                 When you go in for love you are apt to come out._]

  The crowd that had waited
  Outside was elated
    So much by the prince's mischance,
  That they greeted with jeers
  And ironical cheers,
    The end of his little romance.
  They said: "Did it hurt when the ground you hit?"
  They searched for some mark where the prince had lit,
  And as he looked colder,
  They only grew bolder,
  And tapped on his shoulder
                    With: "Tag! You're It!"

  The lengthy discussion
  That sensitive Russian
    Compiled on the U. S. A.
  Was read by the maid,
  As she carelessly played
    With her beautiful hair one day.
  "The talk you hear in that primitive land,"
  He wrote, "nobody can understand."
  "Somebody who guffed him,"
  She said, "has stuffed him,
  And easily bluffed him
                    To beat the band!"

  _The Moral_: The people across the brine
  Are exceedingly strong on Auld Lang Syne,
  But they're lost in the push when they strike a gang
  That is strong on American new line slang!


  How Thomas a Maid from a Dragon Released

  Though Philip the Second
  Of France was reckoned
    No coward, his breath came short
  When they told him a dragon
  As big as a wagon
    Was waiting below in the court!
  A dragon so long, and so wide, and so fat,
  That he couldn't get in at the door to chat:
  The king couldn't leave him
  Outside and grieve him,
  He had to receive him
                    Upon the mat,


  The dragon bowed nicely,
  And very concisely
    He stated the reason he'd called:
  He made the disclosure
  With frigid composure.
    King Philip was simply appalled!
  He demanded for eating, a fortnight apart,
  The monarch's ten daughters, all dear to his heart.
  "And now you'll produce," he
  Concluded, "the juicy
  And succulent Lucie
                    By way of start!"

  King Philip was pliant,
  And far from defiant
    --"And servile," no doubt you retort!--
  But if _you_ struck a snag on
  A bottle-green dragon,
    Who filled up two-thirds of your court,
  And curled up his tail on your new tin roof,
  And made your piazza groan under his hoof,
  Would you threaten and thunder,
  Or just knuckle under
  Completely, I wonder,
                    If put to proof?


  By way of a truce, he
  Brought out little Lucie
    And watched her conducted away,
  But all of the others
  Were out with their brothers!
    Thus gaining a little delay,
  He promised through heralds sent west and east,
  His crown, and his kingdom, and last, not least,
  His daughter so sightly
  To any one knightly
  Who'd come and politely
                    Wipe out that beast!

  For love of the charmer,
  Arrayed in his armor,
    Each suitor for glory who yearned,
  Would gallantly hasten,
  The dragon to chasten,
    But none of them ever returned!
  When the dragon had eaten some sixteen score
  He hung up this sign on his cavern door,
  Whereat he lay pronely
  In majesty lonely:

  |_There's Standing Room Only   |
  |      For Three Knights More!_|

  A slim adolescent,
  His beard only crescent,
    Rode up at this stage of the game
  To where the old sinner
  Lay gorged with his dinner,
    And breathing out torrents of flame.
  He gathered a tip from the flaunting sign,
  And took his position the fourth in line,
  Until, as foreboded,
  By food incommoded,
  The dragon exploded
                    At half-past nine.

  [Illustration: _This shows how a servant may laugh at the Fates,
                 Since everything comes to the fellow who waits._]

  The king was delighted
  At first when he sighted
    The victor, but then in dismay
  Regretted his promise.
  The stripling was Thomas,
    His Majesty's _valet-de-pied_!
  He asked him at once: "Will you compromise?"
  But Thomas looked straight in his master's eyes,
  And answered severely:
  "I see your game clearly,
  And scorn it sincerely.
                    Hand out the prize!"

  Not long did he linger
  Before on the finger
    Of Lucie he fitted a ring:
  A month or two later
  They made him dictator,
    In place of the elderly king:
  He was lauded by pulpit, and boomed by press,
  And no one had ever a chance to guess,
  Beholding this hero
  Who ruled like a Nero,
  His valor was zero,
                    Or something less.

  _The Moral:_ And still from Nice to Calais
  Discretion's the better part of--

  _How a Beauty was Waked and Her Suitor was Suited_

  Albeit wholly penniless,
  Prince Charming wasn't any less
    Conceited than a Croesus or a modern millionaire:
  Though often in necessity,
  No one would ever guess it. He
    Was candidly insolvent, and he frankly didn't care!
  Of the many debts he made
  Not a one was ever paid,
    But no one ever pressed him to refund the borrowed gold:
  While he recklessly kept spending,
  People gladly kept on lending,
    For the fact they knew a title
                    Was requital
       (He lived in sixteen sixty-three,
         This smooth unblushing article,
       Since when, as far as I can see,
         Men haven't changed a particle!)

  In Charming's principality
  There was a wild locality,
    Composed of sombre forest, and of steep and frowning crags,
  Of pheasant and of rabbit, too;
  And here it was his habit to
    Go hunting with his courtiers in the keen pursuit of stags.
  But the charger that he rode
  So mercurially strode
    That the prince on one occasion left the others in the lurch,
  And the falling darkness found him,
  With no vassals left around him,
    Near a building like an abbey,
                    Or a shabby
                      Ruined church.
  His Highness said: "I'll ring the bell
    And stay till morning in it!" (He
  Took Hobson's choice, for no hotel
    There was in the vicinity.)

  His ringing was so vehement
  That any one could see he meant
    To suffer no refusal, but, in spite of all the din,
  There was no answer audible,
  And so, with courage laudable,
    His Royal Highness turned the knob, and stoutly entered in.
  Then he strode across the court,
  But he suddenly stopped short
    When he passed within the castle by a massive oaken door:
  There were courtiers without number,
  But they all were plunged in slumber,
    The prince's ear delighting
                    By uniting
                      In a snore.
  The prince remarked: "This must be Philadelphia,
  (And so was born the jest that's still
    The comic journal's mania!)

  [Illustration: _This shows how the prince won the princess's heart,
                 And the end of her sleeping was simply a start._]

  With torpor reprehensible,
  Numb, comatose, insensible,
    The flunkeys and the chamberlains all slumbered like the dead,
  And snored so loud and mournfully,
  That Charming passed them scornfully
    And came to where a princess lay asleep upon a bed.
  She was so extremely fair
  That His Highness didn't care
    For the risk, and so he kissed her ere a single word he spoke:--
  In a jiffy maids and pages,
  Ushers, lackeys, squires, and sages,
    As fresh as if they'd been at least
                    A week awake,
  And hastened, bustled, dashed and ran
    Up stairways and through galleries:
  In brief, they one and all began
    Again to earn their salaries!


  Aroused from her paralysis,
  As if in deep analysis
    Of him who had awakened her, the princess met his eye:
  Her glance at first was critical,
  And sternly analytical.
    And then she dropped her lashes and she gave a little sigh.
  As he watched her, wholly dumb,
  She observed: "You doubtless come
    For one of two good reasons, and I'm going to ask you which.
  Do you mean my house to harry,
  Or do you propose to marry?"
    He answered: "I may rue it,
                    But I'll do it,
                      If you're rich!"
  The princess murmured with a smile:
    "I've millions, at the least, to come!"
  The prince cried: "Please excuse me, while
    I go and get the priest to come!"


  _The Moral_: When affairs go ill
  The sleeping partner foots the bill.

  _How Jack Found that Beans May go Back on a Chap_

  Without the slightest basis
  For hypochondriasis
    A widow had forebodings which a cloud around her flung,
  And with expression cynical
  For half the day a clinical
    Thermometer she held beneath her tongue.

  Whene'er she read the papers
  She suffered from the vapors,
    At every tale of malady or accident she'd groan;
  In every new and smart disease,
  From housemaid's knee to heart disease,
    She recognized the symptoms as her own!

  She had a yearning chronic
  To try each novel tonic,
    Elixir, panacea, lotion, opiate, and balm;
  And from a homoeopathist
  Would change to an hydropathist,
    And back again, with stupefying calm!


  The closets of her villa
  Were full of sarsaparilla,
    Ammonia, digitalis, bronchial troches, soda mint.
  Restoratives hirsutical,
  And soaps to clean the cuticle,
    And iodine, and peptonoids, and lint.

  She was nervous, cataleptic,
  And anemic, and dyspeptic:
    Though not convinced of apoplexy, yet she had her fears.
  She dwelt with force fanatical
  Upon a twinge rheumatical,
    And said she had a buzzing in her ears!

  Now all of this bemoaning
  And this grumbling and this groaning
    The mind of Jack, her son and heir, unconscionably bored.
  His heart completely hardening,
  He gave his time to gardening,
    For raising beans was something he adored.


  Each hour in accents morbid
  This limp maternal bore bid
    Her callous son affectionate and lachrymose good-bys.
  She never granted Jack a day
  Without some long "Alackaday!"
    Accompanied by rolling of the eyes.

  But Jack, no panic showing,
  Just watched his beanstalk growing,
    And twined with tender fingers the tendrils up the pole.
  At all her words funereal
  He smiled a smile ethereal,
    Or sighed an absent-minded "Bless my soul!"

  That hollow-hearted creature
  Would never change a feature:
    No tear bedimmed his eye, however touching was her talk.
  She never fussed or flurried him,
  The only thing that worried him
    Was when no bean-pods grew upon the stalk!

  But then he wabbled loosely
  His head, and wept profusely,
    And, taking out his handkerchief to mop away his tears,
  Exclaimed: "It hasn't got any!"
  He found this blow to botany
    Was sadder than were all his mother's fears.

  _The Moral_ is that gardeners pine
  Whene'er no pods adorn the vine.
  Of all sad words experience gleans
  The saddest are: "It _might_ have beans."
    (I did not make this up myself:
    'Twas in a book upon my shelf.
    It's witty, but I don't deny
    It's rather Whittier than I!)


  _How a Cat Was Annoyed and a Poet Was Booted_

  A poet had a cat.
  There is nothing odd in that--
    (I _might_ make a little pun about the _Mews_!)
  But what is really more
  Remarkable, she wore
    A pair of pointed patent-leather shoes.
      And I doubt me greatly whether
        E'er you heard the like of that:
      Pointed shoes of patent-leather
                      On a cat!


  His time he used to pass
  Writing sonnets, on the grass--
    (I _might_ say something good on _pen_ and _sward_!)
  While the cat sat near at hand,
  Trying hard to understand
    The poems he occasionally roared.
      (I myself possess a feline,
        But when poetry I roar
      He is sure to make a bee-line
                      For the door.)

  The poet, cent by cent,
  All his patrimony spent--
    (I _might_ tell how he went from _werse_ to _werse_!)
  Till the cat was sure she could,
  By advising, do him good
    So addressed him in a manner that was terse:
      "We are bound toward the scuppers,
        And the time has come to act,
      Or we'll both be on our uppers
                      For a fact!"

  On her boot she fixed her eye,
  But the boot made no reply--
    (I _might_ say: "Couldn't speak to save _its sole_!")
  And the foolish bard, instead
  Of responding, only read
    A verse that wasn't bad upon the whole:
      And it pleased the cat so greatly,
        Though she knew not what it meant,
      That I'll quote approximately
                      How it went:--

  "If I should live to be
  The last leaf upon the tree"--
    (I _might_ put in: "I think I'd just as _leaf_!")
  "Let them smile, as I do now,
  At the old forsaken bough"--
    Well, he'd plagiarized it bodily, in brief!
      But that cat of simple breeding
        Couldn't read the lines between,
      So she took it to a leading


  She was jarred and very sore
  When they showed her to the door.
    (I _might_ hit off the _door_ that was _a jar_!)
  To the spot she swift returned
  Where the poet sighed and yearned,
    And she told him that he'd gone a little far.
      "Your performance with this rhyme has
        Made me absolutely sick,"
      She remarked. "I think the time has
                      Come to kick!"


  I could fill up half the page
  With descriptions of her rage--
    (I _might_ say that she went a bit _too fur_!)
  When he smiled and murmured: "Shoo!"
  "There is one thing I can do!"
    She answered with a wrathful kind of purr.
      "You may shoo me, and it suit you,
        But I feel my conscience bid
      Me, as tit for tat, to boot you!"
                      (Which she did.)


  _The Moral_ of the plot
  (Though I say it, as should not!)
    Is: An editor is difficult to suit.
  But again there're other times
  When the man who fashions rhymes
    Is a rascal, and a bully one to boot!

  _How Much Fortunatus Could Do with a Cap_

  Fortunatus, a fisherman Dane,
  Set out on a sudden for Spain,
    Because, runs the story,
    He'd met with a hoary
        Mysterious sorcerer chap,
    Who, trouble to save him,
    Most thoughtfully gave him
        A magical traveling cap.
  I barely believe that the story is true,
  But here's what that cap was reported to do.


  Suppose you were sitting at home,
  And you wished to see Paris or Rome,
    You'd pick up that bonnet,
    You'd carefully don it,
        The name of the city you'd call,
    And the very next minute
    By Jove, you were in it,
        Without having started at all!
  One moment you sauntered on upper Broadway,
  And the next on the Corso or rue de la Paix!

  [Illustration: _This shows Fortunatus, a restlessness feeling,
                 Forsaking his fishing, and leaving his ceiling._]

  Why, it beat every journey of Cook's,
  Knocked spots out of Baedeker's books!
    He stepped from his doorway
    Direct into Norway,
        He hopped in a trice to Ceylon,
    He saw Madagascar,
    Went round by Alaska,
        And called on a girl in Luzon:
  If they said she'd be down in a moment or two,
  He took, while he waited, a peek at Peru!

  He could wake up at eight in Siam,
  Take his tub, if he wanted, in Guam.
    Eat breakfast in Kansas,
    And lunch in Matanzas,
        Go out for a walk in Brazil,
    Take tea in Madeira,
    Dine on the Riviera,
        And smoke his cigar in Seville,
  Go out to the theatre in Vladivostok,
  And retire in New York at eleven o'clock!


  Every tongue he could readily speak:
  French, German, Italian, Greek,
    Norwegian, Bulgarian,
    Turkish, Bavarian,
        Japanese, Hindustanee,
    Russian and Mexican!
    He was a lexicon,
        Such as you seldom will see.
  His knowledge linguistic gave Ollendorff fits,
  And brought a hot flush to the face of Berlitz!

  He would bow in an intimate way
  To Menelik and to Loubet,
    He was frequently beckoned,
    By William the Second,
        A word of advice to receive,
    He talked with bravado
    About the Mikado,
        King Oscar, Oom Paul, the Khedive,
  King Victor Emmanuel Second, the Shah,
  King Edward the Seventh, Kwang Su, and the Czar!


  But what did he get from it all?
  His wife used to wait in the hall!
    When this wandering mortal
    Set foot on the portal,
        She always appeared on the scene,
    And, far from ideally,
    Remarked: "Well, I _really_
        Would like to know where you have been!"
  Now what is the good of a wandering life,
  If you have to tell all that you do to your wife?


  She'd indulge in a copious cry,
  She'd remark she'd undoubtedly die,
    Or, like many another,
    Go back to her mother,
        And what would the world think of _that_?
    She only grew pleasant,
    When offered a present
        Of gloves or a gown or a hat:
  And more than his talisman saved him in fare
  Fortunatus expended in putting things square!

  And _The Moral_ is easily said:
  Like our hero, you're certain to find,
  When such a cap goes on a head,
  Retribution will follow behind!

  _How a Princess Was Wooed from Habitual Sadness_

  In days of old the King of Saxe
    Had singular opinions,
  For with a weighty battle-axe
    He brutalized his minions,
  And, when he'd nothing to employ
    His mind, he chose a village,
  And with an air of savage joy
    Delivered it to pillage.

  But what aroused within his breast
    A rage well-nigh primeval
  Was, most of all, his daughter, dressed
    In fashion mediæval:
  The gowns that pleased this maiden's eye
    Were simple as Utopia,
  And for a hat she had a high
    Inverted cornucopia.

  In all her life she'd never smiled,
    Her sadness was abysmal:
  The boisterous monarch found his child
    Unutterably dismal.
  He therefore said the prince who made
    Her laughter from its shell come,
  Besides in ducats being paid,
    Might wed the girl, and welcome!

  I ought to say, ere I forget,
    She was uncommon comely--
  (Who ever read a Grimm tale yet,
    In which the girl was homely?)
  And so the King's announcement drew
    Nine princes in a column.
  But all in vain. The princess grew,
  If anything, more solemn.


  One read her "Innocents Abroad,"
    The next wore clothes eccentric,
  The third one swallowed half his sword,
    As in the circus-tent trick.
  Thus eight of them into her cool
    Reserve but deeper shoved her:
  There was but one authentic fool--
    The prince who really loved her!


  He'd alternate between the height
    Of hope and deep abasement,
  He caught distressing colds at night,
    By watching 'neath her casement:
  He did what I have done, I know,
    And you, I do not doubt it,--
  Instead of bottling up his woe,
    He bored his friends about it!

  In brooding on the ways of Fate
    Long hours he daily wasted,
  His food remained upon his plate,
    'Twas scarcely touched or tasted:
  He said the bitter things of love,
    All lovers, save a few, say,
  And learned by heart the verses of
    Swinburne, and A. de Musset!


  This attitude his wished-for bride
    To silent laughter goaded,
  Until he talked of suicide,
    And then the girl exploded!
  "You make me laugh, and so," she said,
    "I'll marry you next season."
  (Not half the people who are wed
    Have half so good a reason!)

  _The Moral_: The deliberate clown
  Can never beat love's barriers down:
  'Tis better to be like the owl,
  Comic because so grave a fowl.
  From him we well may take our cue--
  By him be taught, to wit, to woo!

  _How a Girl was too Reckless of Grammar by Far_

  Matilda Maud Mackenzie frankly hadn't any chin,
  Her hands were rough, her feet she turned invariably in;
      Her general form was German,
        By which I mean that you
      Her waist could not determine
        To within a foot or two:
  And not only did she stammer,
  But she used the kind of grammar
      That is called, for sake of euphony, askew.

  From what I say about her, don't imagine I desire
  A prejudice against this worthy creature to inspire.
      She was willing, she was active,
        She was sober, she was kind,
      But she _never_ looked attractive
        And she _hadn't_ any mind!
  I knew her more than slightly,
  And I treated her politely
      When I met her, but of course I wasn't blind!

  Matilda Maud Mackenzie had a habit that was droll,
  She spent her morning seated on a rock or on a knoll,
      And threw with much composure
        A smallish rubber ball
      At an inoffensive osier
        By a little waterfall;
  But Matilda's way of throwing
  Was like other people's mowing,
      And she never hit the willow-tree at all!

  [Illustration: _This serves in the easiest way to explain
                 What is meant by taking an aim in vain._]

  One day as Miss Mackenzie with uncommon ardor tried
  To hit the mark, the missile flew exceptionally wide,
      And, before her eyes astounded,
        On a fallen maple's trunk
      Ricochetted, and rebounded
        In the rivulet, and sunk!
  Matilda, greatly frightened,
  In her grammar unenlightened,
      Remarked: "Well now I ast yer! Who'd 'er thunk?"

  But what a marvel followed! From the pool at once there rose
  A frog, the sphere of rubber balanced deftly on his nose.
      He beheld her fright and frenzy,
        And, her panic to dispel,
      On his knee by Miss Mackenzie
        He obsequiously fell.
  With quite as much decorum
  As a speaker in a forum
      He started in his history to tell.


  "Fair maid," he said, "I beg you, do not hesitate or wince,
  If you'll promise that you'll wed me, I'll at once become a prince;
      For a fairy old and vicious
        An enchantment round me spun!"
      Then he looked up, unsuspicious,
        And he saw what he had won,
  And in terms of sad reproach he
  Made some comments, _sotto voce_,*

  * (Which the publishers have bidden me to shun!)

  Matilda Maud Mackenzie said, as if she meant to scold:
  "I _never_! Why, you forward thing! Now ain't you awful bold!"
      Just a glance he paused to give her,
        And his head was seen to clutch,
      Then he darted to the river,
        And he dived to beat the Dutch!
  While the wrathful maiden panted:
  "I don't think he was enchanted!"
      (And he really didn't look it overmuch!)


  _The Moral_: In one's language one conservative should be:
  Speech is silver, and it never should be free!


  _How the Peaceful Aladdin Gave Way to His Madness_

  His name was Aladdin.
  The clothes he was clad in
    Proclaimed him an Arab at sight,
  And he had for a chum
  An uncommonly rum
    Old afreet, six cubits in height.
  This person infernal,
  Who seemed so fraternal,
    At bottom was frankly a scamp:
  His future to sadden,
  He gave to Aladdin
    A wonderful magical lamp.

  A marvel he dubbed it.
  He said if one rubbed it
    One's wishes were done on the spot.
  Now what would you do
  Were it offered to you?
    Refuse it undoubtedly (not)!
  It's thus comprehensive
  With pleasure extensive
    Aladdin accepted the gift,
  And, by it befriended,
  Erected a splendid
    Château, with a bath and a lift!

  Not dreaming of malice,
  One year in his palace
    He led a luxurious life,
  Till his genius dread
  Put it into his head
    That he needed a beautiful wife.
  Responding to friction,
  The lamp this affliction
    At once for Aladdin secured;
  The latter, delighted,
  Imagined he sighted
    A future of quiet assured.

  When gladly he chose her,
  He didn't suppose her
    A philatelist, always agape
  For novelties, yet
  She had all of the set
    Of triangular stamps of the Cape.
  Some people malicious
  Proclaimed her Mauritius
    One-penny vermilion a sell.
  But that was all rot. It
  Was true she had got it,
    And the tuppenny blue one as well!

  Since thus she collected,
  As might be expected,
    She didn't for _bric-à-brac_ care,
  So she traded the lamp
  For an Ecuador stamp
    That somebody told her was rare!
  This act served to madden
  The mind of Aladdin,
    But, 'spite of his impotent wrath,
  His manor-house vanished,
  To nothingness banished,
  And while he was taking a bath!


  The average Arab
  Is hard as a scarab
    When some one has wounded his pride,
  So he jumped up and down,
  With a cynical frown,
    On the _face_ of his beautiful bride!
  He had picked up a cargo
  Of curious _argot_
    While living in Paris the gay;
  In the slang of that city
  He cried without pity:
    _"Comme ça tu me fich'ras la paix!"_


  _The Moral:_ When stamps you're adept on
    Of risks you are reckless, and yet
  Beware! If your face is once stepped on,
    That's the last stamp you're likely to get!

  _How a Fisherman Corked up His Foe in a Jar_

  A fisherman lived on the shore,
    (It's a habit that fishers affect,)
  And his life was a hideous bore:
    He had nothing to do but collect
  Continual harvests of seaweed and shells,
    Which he stuck upon photograph frames,
  To sell to the guests in the summer hotels
    With the quite inappropriate names!


  He would wander along by the edge
    Of the sea, and I know for a fact
  From the pools with a portable dredge
    He would curious creatures extract:
  And, during the season, he always took lots
    Of tourists out fishing for bass,
  And showed them politely impossible spots,
    In the culpable way of his class.


  It happened one day, as afar
    He roved on the glistening strand,
  That he chanced on a curious jar,
    Which lay on a hummock of sand.
  It was closed at the mouth with a cork and a seal,
    And over the top there was tied
  A cloth, and the fisherman couldn't but feel
    That he ought to see what was inside.

  [Illustration: _This shows us the fisher beginning to blow
                 Of preserving himself while he pickled his foe._]

  But what were his fear and surprise
    When the stopper he held in his hand!
  For a genie of singular size
    Appeared in a trice on the sand,
  Who said in the roughest and rudest of tones:
    "A monster you've foolishly freed!
  I shall simply make way with you, body and bones,
  And that with phenomenal speed!"

  The fisherman looked in his face,
    And answered him boldly: "My friend,
  How you ever were packed in that space
    Is something I don't comprehend.
  Pray do me the favor to show me how you
    Can do it, as large as you are."
  The genie retorted: "That's just what I'll do!"
  And promptly reëntered the jar.

  The fisherman corked him up tight:
    The genie protested and raved,
  But for all he accomplished, he might
    As well all his shouting have saved.
  And, whenever a generous bonus is paid,
    The fisherman willingly tells
  The singular tale of this trick that he played,
  To the guests in the summer hotels.

  _The Moral_: When fortune you strike,
    And you've slipped through a dangerous crack,
  Get as forward as ever you like,
    But never, oh, _never_ get back!


  Now don't go and say you'd a dim
    Idea of these stories before,
  For I've frankly confessed them from Grimm,
    The monarch of magical lore:

  And if, by repeating, I took
    Your time, I will candidly vow
  _This_ moral (the last in the book)
    Has never been published till now!

  _The Moral_: The skeleton's Grimm,
    But I have supplied the apparel,
  So it's fifty per cent, of it Him,
    And it's fifty per cent. of it Carryl.
  But still (from the personal severing,
    For it isn't my nature to grump,)
  I acknowledge a measure of Levering
    Levering-ed the whole of the lump!


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