Part 9 (1/2)
Rumble, tumble, growl, and grate!
Skip, and trip, and gravitate!
Lunge, and plunge, and thrash the planks With your blameless, shameless shanks: In excruciating pain, Stand upon your head again, And, uncoiling kink by kink, Kick the roof out of the rink!
In derisive bursts of mirth, Drop ka-whop and jar the earth!
Jolt your lungs down in your socks, Oh! tempestuous equinox Of dismembered legs and arms!
Strew your ways with wild alarms; Fameward skoot and ricochet On your glittering vertebrae!
WRITTEN IN BUNNER'S ”AIRS FROM ARCADY”
O ever gracious Airs from Arcady!
What lack is there of any jocund thing In glancing wit or glad imagining Capricious fancy may not find in thee?-- The laugh of Momus, tempered daintily To lull the ear and lure its listening; The whistled syllables the birds of spring Flaunt ever at our guessings what they be; The wood, the seash.o.r.e, and the clanging town; The pets of fas.h.i.+on, and the ways of such; The _robe de chambre_, and the russet gown; The lordling's carriage, and the pilgrim's crutch-- From hale old Chaucer's wholesomeness, clean down To our artistic Dobson's deftest touch!
IN THE AFTERNOON
You in the hammock; and I, near by, Was trying to read, and to swing you, too; And the green of the sward was so kind to the eye, And the shade of the maples so cool and blue, That often I looked from the book to you To say as much, with a sigh.
You in the hammock. The book we'd brought From the parlor--to read in the open air,-- Something of love and of Launcelot And Guinevere, I believe, was there-- But the afternoon, it was far more fair Than the poem was, I thought.
You in the hammock; and on and on I droned and droned through the rhythmic stuff-- But, with always a half of my vision gone Over the top of the page--enough To caressingly gaze at you, swathed in the fluff Of your hair and your odorous ”lawn.”
You in the hammock--and that was a year-- Fully a year ago, I guess-- And what do we care for their Guinevere And her Launcelot and their lordliness!-- You in the hammock still, and--Yes-- Kiss me again, my dear!
AT MADAME MANICURE'S
Daintiest of Manicures!
What a cunning hand is yours; And how awkward, rude and great Mine, as you manipulate!
Wonderfully cool and calm Are the touches of your palm To my fingers, as they rest In their rosy, cosey nest, While your own, with deftest skill, Dance and caper as they will,-- Armed with instruments that seem Gathered from some fairy dream-- Tiny spears, and simitars Such as pixy armorers Might have made for jocund fays To parade on holidays, And flash round in dewy dells, Lopping down the lily-bells; Or in tilting, o'er the leas, At the clumsy b.u.mblebees, Splintering their stings, perchance, As the knights in old romance Snapped the spears of foes that fought In the jousts at Camelot!
Smiling? Dainty Manicure?-- 'Twould delight me, but that you're Simply smiling, as I see, At my nails and not at me!
Haply this is why they glow And light up and twinkle so!
A CALLER FROM BOONE
BENJ. F. JOHNSON VISITS THE EDITOR
It was a dim and chill and loveless afternoon in the late fall of eighty-three when I first saw the genial subject of this hasty sketch.
From time to time the daily paper on which I worked had been receiving, among the general literary driftage of amateur essayists, poets and sketch-writers, some conceits in verse that struck the editorial head as decidedly novel; and, as they were evidently the production of an unlettered man, and an _old_ man, and a farmer at that, they were usually spared the waste-basket, and preserved--not for publication, but to pa.s.s from hand to hand among the members of the staff as simply quaint and mirth-provoking specimens of the verdancy of both the venerable author and the Muse inspiring him. Letters as quaint as were the poems invariably accompanied them, and the oddity of these, in fact, had first called attention to the verses. I well remember the general merriment of the office when the first of the old man's letters was read aloud, and I recall, too, some of his comments on his own verse, verbatim. In one place he said: ”I make no doubt you will find some purty _sad_ spots in my poetry, considerin'; but I hope you will bear in mind that I am a great sufferer with rheumatizum, and have been, off and on, sence the cold New Year's. In the main, however,” he continued, ”I allus aim to write in a cheerful, comfortin' sperit, so's ef the stuff hangs fire, and don't do no good, it hain't a-goin' to do no harm,--and them's my honest views on poetry.”
In another letter, evidently suspecting his poem had not appeared in print because of its dejected tone, he said: ”The poetry I herewith send was wrote off on the finest Autumn day I ever laid eyes on! I never felt better in my life. The morning air was as invigoratin' as bitters with tanzy in it, and the folks at breakfast said they never saw such a' appet.i.te on mortal man before. Then I lit out for the barn, and after feedin', I come back and tuck my pen and ink out on the porch, and jest cut loose. I writ and writ till my fingers was that cramped I couldn't hardly let go of the penholder. And the poem I send you is the upshot of it all. Ef you don't find it cheerful enough fer your columns, I'll have to knock under, that's all!” And that poem, as I recall it, certainly was cheerful enough for publication, only the ”copy” was almost undecipherable, and the ink, too, so pale and vague, it was thought best to reserve the verses, for the time, at least, and later on revise, copy, punctuate, and then print it sometime, as much for the joke of it as anything. But it was still delayed, neglected, and in a week's time almost entirely forgotten.
And so it was, upon this chill and sombre afternoon I speak of that an event occurred which most pleasantly reminded me of both the poem with the ”sad spots” in it, and the ”cheerful” one, ”writ out on the porch”