Part 5 (1/2)
[Ill.u.s.tration: How the cages jolted past]
How the cages jolted past, with each wagon battened fast, And the mystery within it only hinted of at last From the little grated square in the rear, and nosing there The snout of some strange animal that sniffed the outer air!
And, last of all, The Clown, making mirth for all the town, With his lips curved ever upward and his eyebrows ever down, And his chief attention paid to the little mule that played A tattoo on the dashboard with his heels, in the parade.
Oh! the Circus-Day parade! How the bugles played and played!
And how the glossy horses tossed their flossy manes and neighed.
As the rattle and the rhyme of the tenor-drummer's time Filled all the hungry hearts of us with melody sublime!
[Ill.u.s.tration: And, last of all, the clown]
THE LUGUBRIOUS WHING-WHANG
[Ill.u.s.tration: The Lugubrious Whing-Whang--t.i.tle]
The rhyme o' The Raggedy Man's 'at's best Is Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs,-- 'Cause that-un's the strangest of all o' the rest, An' the worst to learn, an' the last one guessed, An' the funniest one, an' the foolishest.-- Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!
I don't know what in the world it means-- Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!-- An' nen when I _tell_ him I don't, he leans Like he was a-grindin' on some machines An' says: Ef I _don't_, w'y, I don't know _beans!_ Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!--
Out on the margin of Moons.h.i.+ne Land, Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!
Out where the Whing-Whang loves to stand, Writing his name with his tail in the sand, And swiping it out with his oogerish hand; Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!
Is it the gibber of Gungs or Keeks?
Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!
Or what _is_ the sound that the Whing-Whang seeks?-- Crouching low by the winding creeks And holding his breath for weeks and weeks!
Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!
Aroint him the wraithest of wraithly things!
Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!
'Tis a fair Whing-Whangess, with phosphor rings And bridal-jewels of fangs and stings; And she sits and as sadly and softly sings As the mildewed whir of her own dead wings,-- Tickle me, Dear, Tickle me here, Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!
WAITIN' FER THE CAT TO DIE
[Ill.u.s.tration: Waitin' Fer The Cat to Die--t.i.tle]
Lawzy! don't I rickollect That-'air old swing in the lane!
Right and proper, I expect, Old times _can't_ come back again; But I want to state, ef they _Could_ come back, and I could say What _my_ pick 'ud be, i jing!
I'd say, Gimme the old swing 'Nunder the old locus'-trees On the old place, ef you please!-- Danglin' there with half-shet eye, Waitin' fer the cat to die!
I'd say, Gimme the old gang Of barefooted, hungry, lean, Ornry boys you want to hang When you're growed up twic't as mean!
The old gyarden-patch, the old Truants, and the stuff we stol'd!