Part 4 (1/2)

Where you got that stuff I don't know, But you would be a riot in the two-a-day.

Quit this hanky-panky And I'll make you a headliner.”

Well, I fell for his line of talk Like the sod busters had fallen for mine.

Aaron Hoffman wrote me a topical monologue; Max Marx made me a suit of clothes; And Lew Dockstader wised me up On how to jockey my laughs.

I opened in Hartford; Believe me, I was some scream.

I gave them gravy, and hok.u.m, And when they ate it up I came through With the old jasbo, Than which there is nothing so efficacious In vaudeville, polite or otherwise.

The first thing I did I hollered for more dough, And Poli says: ”That's what I get for feeding you meat, But you are a riot all right, all right, So I guess you are on for more kale.”

I kept getting better.

I got so's I could follow any act at all And get my laughs.

And he who getteth his laughs Is greater than he who taketh a city.

At last the Palace Theatre sent for me And I signed up for a week.

They kept me two.

I am a headliner; I stand at the corner of Forty-seventh Street And Little Old Broadway; Throw out my chest, Call the agents and vaudeville magnates By their first names.

I am a HEADLINER with a home in Freeport.

MURDOCK PEMBERTON

THE SCREEN

From midnight till the following noon I stand in shadow, Just a splotch of white, Unnoted by the cleaning crew Who've spent their hours of toil That I might live again.

Yet they hold no reverence for my charms, And if they pause amid their work They do not glance at me; All their admiration, all their awe, Is for the gold and scarlet trappings of the home That's built to house my wonders; Or for the gorgeous murals all around, Which really, after all, Were put in place as most lame subst.i.tutes, Striving to soothe the patron's ire For those few moments when my face is dark.

Yes, men have built a palace sheltering me, And as the endless ocean washes on its stretch of beach The tides of people flow to me.

All things I am to everyone; The newsboys, shopgirls, And all starved souls Who've clutched at life and missed, See in my magic face, The lowly rise to fame and palaces, See virtue triumph every time And rich and wicked justly flayed.

Old men are tearful When I show them what they might have been.

And others, not so old, Bask in the suns.h.i.+ne of my fairy tales.

The lovers see new ways to woo; And wives see ways to use old brooms.

Some nights I see the jeweled opera crowd Who seem aloof but inwardly are fond of me Because I've caught the gracious beauty of their pets.

Then some there are who watch my changing face To catch new history's shadow As it falls from day to day.

And at the noiseless tramp of soldier feet, In time to music of the warring tribes, The shadow men across my face Seem living with the hope or dread Of those who watch them off to wars.

In sordid substance I am but a sheet, A fabric of some fireproof stuff.

And yet, in every port where s.h.i.+ps can ride, In every nook where there is breath of life, Intrepid men face death To catch for me the fleeting phases of the world Lest I lose some charming facet of my face.

And all the masters of all time Have thrummed their harps And bowed their violins To fas.h.i.+on melodies that might be played The while I tell my tales.

O you who hold the mirror up to nature, Behold my cosmic scope: I am the mirror of the whirling globe.

BROADWAY--NIGHT

I saw the rich in motor cars Held in long lines Until cross-streams of cars flowed by; I saw young boys in service clothes And flags flung out from tradesmen's doors; I saw some thousand drifting men Some thousand aimless women; I saw some thousand wearied eyes That caught no sparkle from the myriad lights Which blazoned everywhere; I saw a man stop in his walk To pet an old black cat.

MATINEE

They pa.s.s the window Where I sit at work, In silks and furs And boots and hats All of the latest mode.