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TEN GREAT LITTLE POEMS 
 
PUBLISHER'S NOTE 
 
 Whereas^ The edition of this book is limited 
 to one thousand copies, full count; and whereas, 
 owing to a contract with the Burrelle Clipping 
 Bureau, it is desirable to send one-third of the 
 edition to the general press; and, whereas the 
 author has many friends and acquaintances who 
 are always keen to receive autograph copies of 
 his books, on account of their handy size for 
 shaving paper: therefore, it is to be hoped that 
 the purchasing public will show the same degree 
 of solicitous consideration in the matter of sup- 
 ply and demand that they have shown in the 
 past. 
 
 Respectfully, 
 
 C. M. POTTERDON. 
 
TEN GREAT LITTLE 
 POEMS 
 
 NOT BY THE OLD MASTERS 
 
 PICKED UP ADRIFT 
 BY 
 
 WILLIAM TIMOTHY CALL 
 
 Price, 50 Cents 
 
 HAWTHORNE, N. J. 
 
 C. M. POTTERDON 
 1911 
 

 Copyright, 1911, by 
 WILLIAM TIMOTHY CALL 
 
 ^^■ 
 
 ©CI,A2972G2 
 
PREFACE 
 
 When music ceases to please mankind, 
 thought expressed in verse, poetry, will be a 
 dead cock in the pit. 
 
 I have thought it necessary to shock the 
 reader at the start, in order to get a level. 
 
 There are no weights or measures, no rules 
 or guides, by which you can fix the worth of 
 a poem. True lovers of poetry are not neces- 
 sarily lovers of true poetry — if there is such 
 a thing. They range themselves naturally and 
 honestly into three classes: the aristocrats, 
 who love the poetry that other aristocrats have 
 loved ; the dilettanti, who love the poetry that 
 no one else loves; and the illiterati, who love 
 the poetry that amuses or awes them. 
 
 This booklet is not addressed to any of those 
 classes. It is for nondescripts — persons who 
 form their own judgments regardless of 
 authority. Consequently these pages reflect 
 
merely a personal opinion, and the personal 
 pronoun is used throughout the remarks, be- 
 cause they express a personal opinion, and 
 because the writer is a nondescript lover of 
 verse — himself no versifier. 
 
 W. T. Call. 
 New York, 
 August, 191 1. 
 
TEN GREAT LITTLE 
 POEMS 
 
 Many times, in varying moods and tenses, 
 I have given my imagination a holiday, with 
 this question to play with: What short poem 
 in the English language would you best like 
 to have written? The answer has steadfastly 
 been: This is it. 
 
 In attempting to analyze this notion of a 
 nondescript lover of poetry, I have put the 
 blame where it would rest easiest; that is, on 
 Edgar Allan Poe. That scalawag wrote a 
 lecture on The Poetic Principle that I have 
 never been able to cut with acid. Years ago 
 I asked R. H. Stoddard, America's watchdog 
 of good literature, whether Poe had as clean 
 an intellect as Blaise Pascal; and the old czar 
 swore so about Poe that I saw he was not 
 
talking about the thing I was thinking about. 
 Anyway, I blame Poe for any of my own 
 follies in poetic taste. In my notion of ex- 
 cellence in poetry, it is expression — the actual 
 verbal statement, that is the thing, regardless 
 of the loftiness or profundity of the idea. Any 
 one can think poetry. 
 
 To resume. I found in attempting to 
 analyze my notion that my liver acted badly 
 in the presence of art in expression, and I 
 discovered that that silly organ easily gave up 
 its ghost in the presence of TENDERNESS — 
 the presiding spirit of De Massa ob de Sheep- 
 
 for. 
 
 Again and again (for I can not see into a 
 poem until I have read it many times) I went 
 over Psalm xxiii, Tennyson's Tears, Idle 
 Tears, Eugene Field's wonderful gems, and 
 all the others of kin familiar to me, but back I 
 came to my truelove. 
 
 Of the birth and career of this poem I know 
 nothing at first hand. It would be a large 
 book that would contain all that has been said 
 in praise of it by others. The following note 
 was clipped from the New York Sun during 
 the lifetime, I think, of Charles A. Dana, 
 its editor, whose anthology. The Household 
 
 8 
 
Book of Poetry, is unexcellable in taste and 
 judgment: 
 
 DE MASSA OB DE SHEEPFOL' 
 
 A friend has robbed his cherished scrapbook 
 to send in a clipping of the first appearance of 
 the poem in The Sun. The question was then 
 asked who was the author. This further com- 
 ment was made: "Without regard to the dialect, 
 this is one of the most beautiful poems in the 
 English language. We have attributed it to Mr. 
 Joel Chandler Harris of Atlanta, the author of 
 'Uncle Remus,' but he says that it is not his." It 
 was later identified as being the work of Sally 
 Pratt Maclean Greene, author of "Cape Cod 
 Folks." It is found in Stedman's "American 
 Anthology," page 635. Set to music by J. M. 
 Whyte, it appears in the program of the jubilee 
 (1891) of the Freedmen's Aid Society. It was 
 also set to music by John Kimball Reynolds and 
 published by R. L. Durant of Los Angeles. 
 
 In my search during many years for un- 
 crowned waifs and strays I have not found it 
 a simple matter to isolate a rarity in the rich 
 wildwood of modern verse. The wandering 
 eye, the listless ear, and the satiated fancy 
 appeal for rest, and there seems to be no new 
 thing under the sun. Then is the time to get 
 
out your checker-board, or your solitaire pack, 
 or take a dose of Kant. The soothing effect 
 of those antidotes for poetry poisoning opens 
 the inner eye to the conviction that dialect is 
 a powerful imp in giving atmosphere to verse. 
 Note its effect in that popular little wastrel of 
 the periodical press, the Wessex Love Song, 
 beginning thus : 
 
 Hast thee heerd the culver dove, 
 When the woods be green, 
 
 Zingen to his mate o' love 
 Arl his heart do mean ? 
 
 At the other end of the poetic procession, 
 observe what the solemn style (which I choose 
 to class as dialect) does for the twenty-third 
 Psalm ; which Mayor Gaynor, discussing man's 
 intellectual advancement, points to as match- 
 less. 
 
 So I think the charm of the poem we have 
 at last come to not a little due to the cut of 
 its clothing: 
 
 10 
 
-THE LOST SHEEP 
 
 De massa ob de sheepfol', 
 Dat guard de sheepfol' bin, 
 
 Look out in de gloomerin' meadows 
 Whar de long night rain begin — 
 
 So he call to de hirelin' shepa'd, 
 Is my sheep, is dey all come in? 
 
 On den says de hirelin* shepa'd, 
 Dey's some, dey's black and thin, 
 
 And some, dey's po' ol' wedda's. 
 But de res' dey's all brung in, 
 But de res* dey's all brung in. 
 
 Den de massa ob de sheepfol', 
 Dat guard de sheepfol' bin, 
 
 Goes down in the gloomerin* meadows, 
 Whar de long night rain begin — 
 
 So he le' down de ba's ob de sheepfol', 
 Callin' sof, "Come in, come in !" 
 Callin' sof, "Come in, come in!" 
 
 Den up t'ro de gloomerin' meadows, 
 
 T'ro de col' night rain an* win*. 
 And up t'ro de gloomerin' rain paf, 
 
 Whar de sleet fa' pie'cin' thin, 
 De po' los' sheep ob de sheepfol', 
 
 Dey all comes gadderin' in: 
 De po' los' sheep ob de sheepfol*, 
 
 Dey all comes gadderin* in. 
 
 II 
 
II 
 
 Here is a poem not so well known as the 
 preceding. In my estimation it stands unex- 
 celled in the class I like to regard as repre- 
 senting MAJESTY. 
 
 Quick from the poetry lover's mind will 
 come the challenge : ''What ! Do you dare to 
 match this obscure creature against the ar- 
 mored brain children of the masters ?" 
 
 To this I reply : "Yes, I must." Go to your 
 anthologies, your golden treasuries, your 
 private collections; bring out your favorites, 
 sort out your unbeaten champions, send forth 
 your Goliath. Perchance you may choose 
 Byron's Ocean; or maybe you are a Kipling- 
 ite (I am, as to his poetry) — but I know most 
 of your gladiators quite well, and I take off 
 my hat to them with reverence whenever we 
 chance to meet. Still I have put my money on 
 this little David, and there it shall remain. 
 
 My clipping credits these stately stanzas to 
 Florence Earle Coates. I have made no effort 
 to verify the text or to learn anything about 
 its history. It is enough for the purpose of 
 these rambling pages to give what I have 
 found just as I found it: 
 
 12 
 
DEATH 
 
 I am the key that parts the gates of Fame ; 
 I am the cloak that covers cowering Shame ; 
 I am the final goal of every race; 
 I am the storm-tossed spirit's resting-place : 
 
 The messenger of sure and swift relief, 
 Welcomed with wailings and reproachful grief; 
 The friend of those that have no friend but me, 
 I break all chains and set all captives free. 
 
 I am the cloud that, when Earth's day is done, 
 An instant veils an unextinguished sun ; 
 I am the brooding hush that follows strife. 
 The waking from a dream that Man calls — Life ! 
 
 13 
 
Ill 
 
 I have often wondered whether the creator 
 of Finnigin laid him down on paper with the 
 same ease and celerity that Doctor Johnson 
 put down Rasselas. If he did, the whole thing 
 must have been in the womb of his brain the 
 proper period, for it is perfect. 
 
 In vain I have searched Hood, Holmes, 
 Harte, Saxe, Boker, and the poetry corners of 
 the ephemeral press for its superior as a word 
 mosaic. It is, in my opinion, the apotheosis 
 of CLEVERNESS. Here we have a jewel 
 in the rough. Cut it to purity, and we have — 
 Tennyson — no one else. 
 
 I am aware that this juxtaposition will jolt 
 the susceptibilities of the cognoscenti. But 
 who can abide a judicious lover! Poe said he 
 considered Tennyson the noblest poet of them 
 all. Me, too. Taine, who knew English liter- 
 ature better than any Englishman that ever 
 lived, may have made a lapsus in preferring 
 one of his own countryman to our Englis4i- 
 
 14 
 
man. As to that, I do not know; but I do 
 know that you must read a poem in the lan- 
 guage in which it was written, or you must 
 read two different poems at once. Imagine 
 Finnigin in French ! 
 
 Now what I say is that in the fine purple 
 of the Bugle Song and the homespun of this 
 tatterdemalion I see no choice as to the art 
 of the workmanship. 
 
 Ralph A. Lyon, writing from Baltimore, 
 February i, 1906, to the New York Times, 
 says: "Strickland W. Gillilan, the author of 
 Finnigin to Flannigan, told me that the verses 
 had been stolen and mutilated so often that 
 he almost felt like giving up the task of try- 
 ing to father them." 
 
 The text here used is that of a clipping 
 crediting the verses to S. W. Gillilan, with 
 acknowledgment to Life: 
 
 15 
 
FINNIGIN TO FLANNIGAN 
 
 Superintindint wuz Flannigan; 
 Boss av the siction wuz Finnigin; 
 Whiniver the kyars got offen the thrack 
 An' muddled up things t' th' divil an' back, 
 Finnigin writ it to Flannigan, 
 Afther the wrick wuz all on agin ; 
 That is, this Finnigin 
 Repoorted to Flannigan. 
 
 Whin Finnigin furst writ to Flannigan, 
 He writed tin pages, did Finnigin. 
 An' he tould jist how the smash occurred; 
 Full minny a tajus, blunderin' wurrd 
 Did Finnigin write to Flannigan 
 Afther the cars had gone on agin. 
 That wuz how Finnigin 
 Repoorted to Flannigan. 
 
 Now Flannigan knowed more than Finnigin 
 He'd more idjucation, had Flannigan; 
 An' it wore 'm clane and complately out 
 To tell what Finnigin writ about 
 In his writin' to Muster Flannigan. 
 So he writed back to Finnigin: 
 "Don't do sich a sin agin; 
 Make 'em brief, Finnigin!" 
 
 i6 
 
Whin Ffnnigin got this from Flannigan, 
 
 He blushed rosy rid, did Finnigin ; 
 
 An' he said: "I'll gamble a whole month's pa-ay 
 
 That it will be minny an' minny a da-ay 
 
 Befoore Sup'rintindint, that's Flannigan, 
 
 Gits a whack at this very same sin agin. 
 
 From Finnigin to Flannigan 
 
 Repoorts won't be long agin." 
 
 Wan da-ay on the siction av Finnigin, 
 
 On the road sup'rintinded by Flannigan, 
 
 A rail give way on a bit av a curve 
 
 An' some kyars went off as they made the swerve. 
 
 "There's nobody hurted," sez Finnigin, 
 
 "But repoorts must be made to Flannigan." 
 
 An' he winked at McGorrigan, 
 
 As married a Finnigin. 
 
 He wuz shantyin' thin, wuz Finnigin, 
 
 As minny a railroader's been agin, 
 
 An' the shmoky ol' lamp wuz burnin* bright 
 
 In Finnigin's shanty all that night— 
 
 Bilin' down his repoort, was Finnigin. 
 
 An' he writed this here: "Muster Flannigan: 
 
 Off agin, on agin. 
 
 Gone agin — Finnigin." 
 
 17 
 
IV 
 
 In the old days of scientific rhetoric we were 
 all taught the elements of the sublime and the 
 beautiful, crystallized into formulas by the 
 schoolmen. Now here are some stanzas, cred- 
 ited in my clipping to Jerome W. Turner, with 
 acknowledgment to the Atlanta Constitution, 
 that could hardly be used to exemplify the 
 canons of the sublime or the beautiful, be- 
 cause they represent REALISM. Not the 
 realism of Flaubert, but that of Howells when 
 he is not dressed up and stuck up. 
 
 Henry Watterson used to like to write about 
 Single Poem Poets, but he missed some of 
 them. 
 
 There was a time when I thought it was a 
 toss-up between Keats and Hood as to who 
 had a poetic cinch on the fish. I did not at- 
 tempt to set up as a contestant that popular 
 classic by Professor Beers, beginning, 
 
 A whale of great porosity, 
 And small specific gravity, 
 
 Dived down with much velocity, 
 Beneath the sea's concavity, 
 
because they say a whale is not a fish. But 
 I know that minnows (the proper spelling, I 
 think, is minnies) are fish, for I have seen 
 them hundreds of times in the Penobscot 
 River, and I have seen the sawdust there, 
 and I have seen the teeth of steel that 
 bit the logs that produced the sawdust that 
 came from the boards that made the house 
 that many a Jack built. Furthermore, I have 
 seen the minnies push the sawdust about in 
 just the same way the pensive poet who wrote 
 these gentle stanzas must have seen them. 
 
 After you have read this slowly three times, 
 recite The Brook, inaudibly, once, and see 
 whether that masterpiece does not help you to 
 admire its little brother: 
 
 19 
 
SAWDUST 
 
 The mill-saw with its teeth of steel 
 Bites through the log upon the tram, 
 
 And drops the dust like golden meal 
 Into the stream below the dam. 
 
 It floats in long procession down — 
 Puts golden fringe on the water's edge, 
 
 Or rests in nooklets green and brown, 
 And shines like sparks among the sedge. 
 
 Now swims a particle away 
 
 And minnows push it here and there, 
 As boys at football love the play 
 
 On summer days in the summer air. 
 
 The water shouts in cheering tones. 
 As float the shining masses down 
 
 Around the curves, among the stones. 
 And past the busy trade-blind town. 
 
 And still the saw with teeth of steel 
 Bites through the log upon the tram, 
 
 And drops its food like golden meal 
 Into the stream below the dam. 
 
 20 
 
Pragmatism is a new brand of philosophy, 
 or, rather, as Mr. James put it, a new name for 
 old ways of thinking. The old philosophy had 
 as its major premise, Nothing succeeds like 
 success, though not expressed in those vulgar 
 words. The cornerstone of pragmatism is, as 
 its wise guys point out, Does it work ? 
 
 Using the pragmatic method instead of the 
 Aristotelian, we are not only able to say fare- 
 well to the following poem, so dear to the ears 
 of the lovers of formal logic. 
 
 Iron is a metal; 
 
 All metals are elements; 
 
 Therefore iron is an element; 
 
 but we are able to get right down to tacks, 
 and do the stunt without the use of a net. The 
 question before us is to find out whether Casey 
 at the Bat is a great poem or is not a great 
 poem. All we have to do then is to apply 
 Mr. James's touchstone: Does it work? 
 
 The answer is as simple as the method. If 
 it doesn't work, then nothing in all literature 
 ever did work. 
 
 Where is there from the days of the harpist 
 
 21 
 
to the era of Honus Wagner a sweeter morsel 
 than the last stanza of this pragmatic poem ? 
 
 When I read Casey, as I do every time he 
 comes my way, for some reason which I am 
 unable to account for by pragmatism, I find 
 myself saying: 
 
 Up from the meadows rich with corn. 
 Clear in the cool September morn, 
 The clustered spires of Frederick stand 
 Green-walled by the hills of Maryland. 
 
 I have always loved Barbara Frietchie be- 
 cause of the magical effect of the wording on 
 a naturally weak visualizing faculty. I see 
 pictures in the empty air when I read Barbara, 
 and I feel, as by telepathy, the piteous agony 
 of the crowd when I read Casey. Surely, 
 surely Casey is a great poem. It stands to 
 me for VIVIDNESS. 
 
 My clippings show that this poem is by 
 Ernest L. Thayer; that he was graduated at 
 Harvard in 1885 ; that he went to California 
 and joined the staff of the San Francisco 
 Examiner; and that Casey was printed first in 
 that newspaper, the date being Sunday, June 
 3, 1888. 
 
 Well, here he is : 
 
 22 
 
CASEY AT THE BAT 
 
 It looked extremely rocky for the Boston nine that 
 
 day; 
 The score stood two to four, with but an inning 
 
 left to play. 
 So, when Cooney died at second, and Burrows did 
 
 the same, 
 A pallor wreathed the features of the patrons of 
 
 the game. 
 
 A straggling few got up to go, leaving there the 
 
 rest, 
 With that hope which springs eternal within the 
 
 human breast, 
 For they thought: "If only Casey could get a 
 
 whack at that," 
 They'd put up even money now, with Casey at the 
 
 bat. 
 
 But Flynn preceded Casey, and likewise so did 
 Blake, 
 
 And the former was a pudd'n', and the latter was 
 a fake. 
 
 So on that stricken multitude a death-like silence 
 sat, 
 
 For there seemed but little chance of Casey's get- 
 ting to the bat. 
 
 23 
 
But Flynn let drive a "single," to the wonderment 
 
 of all, 
 And the much-despised Blakey "tore the cover off 
 
 the ball." 
 And when the dust had lifted, and they saw what 
 
 had occurred, 
 There was Blakey safe at second, and Flynn a- 
 
 huggin' third. 
 
 Then, from the gladdened multitude went up a 
 
 joyous yell. 
 It rumbled in the mountain tops, it rattled in the 
 
 dell; 
 It struck upon the hillside and rebounded on the 
 
 flat; 
 For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the 
 
 bat. 
 
 There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped 
 
 into his place. 
 There was pride in Casey's bearing and a smile on 
 
 Casey's face; 
 And when responding to the cheers he lightly 
 
 doffed his hat, 
 No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Casey 
 
 at the bat. 
 
 Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his 
 
 hands with dirt, 
 Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped 
 
 them on his shirt; 
 
 24 
 
Then when the writhing pitcher ground the ball 
 
 into his hip, 
 Defiance glanced in Casey's eye, a sneer curled 
 
 Casey's lip. 
 
 And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling 
 
 through the air. 
 An' Casey stood a-watchin' it in haughty grandeur 
 
 there. 
 Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded 
 
 sped; 
 "That ain't my style," said Casey. "Strike one," 
 
 the umpire said. 
 
 From the benches, black with people, there went 
 
 up a muffled roar, 
 Like the beating of storm waves on the stern and 
 
 distant shore; 
 "Kill him ! kill the umpire !" shouted some one on 
 
 the stand; 
 And it's likely they'd have killed him had not 
 
 Casey raised his hand. 
 
 With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's 
 
 visage shone; 
 He stilled the rising tumult, he bade the game go 
 
 on; 
 He signalled to the pitcher, and once more the 
 
 spheroid flew; 
 But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, 
 
 "Strike two." 
 
 25 
 
"Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and the 
 echo answered "Fraud !" 
 
 But one scornful look from Casey and the audi- 
 ence was awed; 
 
 They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw 
 his muscles strain, 
 
 And they knew that Casey wouldn't let the ball go 
 by again. 
 
 The sneer is gone from Casey's lips, his teeth are 
 
 clenched in hate. 
 He pounds with cruel vengeance his bat upon the 
 
 plate ; 
 And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he 
 
 lets it go, 
 And now the air is shattered by the force of 
 
 Casey's blow. 
 
 Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is 
 
 shining bright. 
 The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere 
 
 hearts are light; 
 And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere 
 
 children shout. 
 But there is no joy in Boston: mighty Casey has 
 
 struck out. 
 
 26 
 
VI 
 
 This poem first came to my attention many 
 years ago in, I think, the New York Ledger. 
 It is by Josephine Pollard, who wrote much in 
 verse and prose that is praiseworthy. This 
 piece has been greatly esteemed for its fine 
 expression of a strong but gentle passion. 
 The last stanza may perhaps be criticised as 
 an imaginative exaggeration that rather mars 
 than heightens the effect produced by the feel- 
 ing brought out in those preceding it. To my 
 mind this piece realizes in verse the limits of 
 the EMOTIONAL. 
 
 I have found the devices here employed in 
 two or three closely similar productions of the 
 greater poets. Similarities and even identities 
 are common enough in versicular literature. 
 In the ethics of the poets, it is not he who 
 does the thing first, but the one who does it 
 best that is entitled to the laurel: 
 
 27 
 
LOVE'S POWER 
 
 If I were blind, and thou shouldst enter 
 E'er so softly in the room, 
 
 I should know it, 
 
 I should feel it, 
 Something subtle would reveal it, 
 And a glory round thee center 
 That would lighten up the gloom, 
 And my heart would surely guide me. 
 With Love's second-sight provide me, 
 One amid the crowd to find. 
 
 If I were blind ! 
 
 If I were deaf, and thou hadst spoken 
 Ere thy presence I had known, 
 
 I should know it, 
 
 I should feel it, 
 Something subtle would reveal it. 
 And the seal at once be broken 
 By Love's liquid undertone. 
 Deaf to other, stranger voices, 
 And the world's discordant noises — 
 Whisper, wheresoe'er thou art, 
 
 'Twill reach my heart ! 
 
 28 
 
If I were dead, and thou shouldst venture 
 Near the coffin where I lay, 
 
 I should know it, 
 
 I should feel it, 
 Something subtle would reveal it. 
 And no look of mildest censure 
 Rest upon that face of clay. 
 Shouldst thou kiss me, conscious flashes 
 Of Love's fire through Death's cold ashes 
 Would give back the cheeks its red. 
 
 If I were dead! 
 
 29 
 
VII 
 
 I wanted some poem to stand for the SEN- 
 TIMENTAL. As I understand it, the senti- 
 mental in poetry means something that big- 
 wigs and highbrows disdain, but which, never- 
 theless, always brings the great crowd to its 
 feet with the mighty shout — "How true !" So 
 I selected this poem from my collection, for 
 I consider it the best job in this line that ever 
 was done. 
 
 When in my early youth, searching for a 
 piece to speak, I came across something I 
 liked in the yellowing Readers, Repositories, 
 and Garlands, I usually found that it was by 
 Anon. To my boyish fancy. Anon seemed to 
 be a very old and very popular writer. My 
 clipping says that the poem we are now com- 
 ing to is by the same dear old Anon. I know 
 better, but I am not going to realize Herbert 
 Spencer's conception of a tragedy — a general- 
 ization killed by a fact — through telling what 
 I know of the authorship of this poem. 
 
 30 
 
The mighty critics of the ponderous press, 
 sitting among their cockroaches and caked and 
 stinking paste pots (to which, personally, I 
 have no objection), may throw their little 
 paper darts at this kind of writing, but there 
 is not one of them that can turn out anything 
 half so good. I would rather try to live on 
 chiclets than on their pabulum. 
 
 All together, now: 
 
 31 
 
THE WAY OF THE WORLD 
 
 "Laugh, and the world laughs with you; 
 Weep, and you weep alone — " 
 
 For this brave old earth 
 
 Must borrow its mirth, 
 It has trouble enough of its own. 
 
 Sing, and the hills will answer; 
 Sigh, and 'tis lost on the air. 
 
 The echoes rebound 
 
 To a joyful sound. 
 But shrink from voicing care. 
 
 Rejoice, and men will seek you; 
 Grieve, and they will turn and go. 
 
 They want full measure 
 
 Of all your pleasure, 
 But they do not want your woe. 
 
 Be glad, and your friends are many; 
 Be sad, and you lose them all. 
 
 There are none to decline 
 
 Your nectared wine. 
 But alone you must drink life's gall. 
 
 32 
 
Feast, and your halls are crowded ; 
 Fast, and the world goes by. 
 
 Succeed and give, 
 
 And it helps you live, 
 But it can not help you die. 
 
 There is room in the halls of pleasure 
 For a long and lordly train; 
 
 But one by one 
 
 We must all file on 
 Through the narrow aisles of pain. 
 
 33 
 
VIII 
 
 This is my choice to represent the IMAGI- 
 NATIVE. In my opinion it is — but take your 
 pick: 
 
 fine 
 
 sumptuous 
 
 grand 
 
 lofty 
 
 splendid 
 
 sublime 
 
 beautiful 
 
 majestic 
 
 stately 
 
 elegant 
 
 superb 
 
 gorgeous 
 
 lustrous 
 
 magnificent 
 
 It is real funny, too. 
 
 I do not know who wrote the Romans, and, 
 like Eva Tanguay, I don't care. My clipping 
 credits it to the Hartford Courant. 
 
 Had this bookee been a work on the game 
 of checkers, and that poem a checker prob- 
 lem, I would have searched and verified with 
 disgusting industry to find out who did it, as 
 a matter of simple justice to a fine intellect. 
 
 34 
 
But in an inconsequential matter of this kind 
 I hardly think it worth while to go to so much 
 bother, and perhaps get into a mixup with 
 some cold-blooded commercializing publisher, 
 who would insist on the damning line — "By 
 kind permission of Messrs. Muckrake & 
 Mush," when as a matter of fact this classic 
 belongs to all the people all the time : 
 
 35 
 
THE MODERN ROMANS 
 
 Under the slighting light of the yellow sun of 
 
 October, 
 Close by the side of the car-track a gang of Dagos 
 
 were working; 
 Pausing a moment to catch a word of their 
 
 liquid Italian, 
 Faintly I heard an echo of Rome's imperial ac- 
 cents. 
 Broken-down forms of Latin words from the 
 
 Senate and Forum, 
 Now smoothed over by use to the musical ligua 
 
 Romana. 
 Then the thought came, why, these are the heirs 
 
 of the Romans; 
 These are the sons of the men who founded the 
 
 empire of Cassar; 
 These are they whose fathers carried the conquer- 
 ing eagles 
 Over all Gaul and across the sea to Ultima Thule ; 
 The race-type persists unchanged in their eyes and 
 
 profiles and figures. 
 Muscular, short, and thick-set, with prominent 
 
 noses, recalling 
 "Romanes rerum dominos, gentemque togatam." 
 See, Labinus is swinging a pick with rhythmical 
 
 motion ; 
 Yonder one pushing the shovel might be Julius 
 
 Caesar, 
 Lean, deep-dyed, broad-browed, and bald, a man 
 
 of a thousand; 
 
 36 
 
Further along stands the jolly Horatius Flaccus; 
 Grim and grave, with rings in his ears, see Cato 
 the censor. 
 
 On the side of the street in proud and gloomy 
 
 seclusion, 
 Bossing the job, stood a Celt; the race enslaved 
 
 by the legions. 
 Sold in the markets of Rome to meet the expenses 
 
 of Caesar, 
 And, as I loitered, the Celt cried out, ''Worruk, ye 
 
 Dagos. 
 Full up your shovel, Paythro, ye haythen ! I'll 
 
 dock yees a quarther." 
 This he said to the one who resembled the great 
 
 Imperator ; 
 Meekly the dignified Roman kept on patiently 
 
 digging. 
 
 Such are the changes and chances the centuries 
 bring to the nations. 
 
 Surely the ups and downs of the world are past 
 calculation. 
 
 "Possibly thus," I thought to myself, "the yoke 
 of the Irish 
 
 May in turn be lifted from us, in the tenth gen- 
 eration. 
 
 Now the Celt is on top, but time may bring his 
 revenges, 
 
 Turning the Fenian down, once more to be bossed 
 by a Dago." 
 
 37 
 
IX 
 
 Uncle Sam is inclined to smile at Punch 
 rather than with him — we are told. 
 
 In the heart of Yankeeland, in the files of a 
 Catholic newspaper, are to be found more than 
 one specimen that reaches my ideal of what in 
 poetry stands for a delicious vein of HUMOR. 
 There, and in other places, they are signed, 
 T. A. Daly. 
 
 Perhaps if I had read this selection in 
 Punch ( I read Punch occasionally at the Press 
 Club and in the old Rolfe chop house in John 
 Street, Tom Innd, prop., Albert on deck, 
 thirty years for mine), I might not have been 
 at once so keenly pleased by it. Probably it 
 never appeared in Punch, and I do not know 
 where it was first printed ; but I do know that 
 it has gone the rounds of this broad land. 
 That is, it has appeared in every newspaper 
 having a competent exchange reader. 
 
 I recall nothing in the standard poets to be 
 used as a sounding-board for Domineec, so I 
 
 38 
 
have dragged in Punch. Now while there is 
 no direct perceivable relationship between the 
 humor of Punch and that of Daly, the refer- 
 ence serves my purpose well enough, for I 
 have seen some fine things in Punch that are 
 different from fine things that I have seen 
 elsewhere. So with Domineec. 
 
 It is as good as Abou Ben Adhem, and 
 nothing could be better. 
 
 So here it is: 
 
 39 
 
PADRE DOMINEEC 
 
 Padre Domineec McCann, 
 He ees great beeg Irish man. 
 
 He ees growla w'en he speak, 
 Like he gona go for you 
 Jus, for busta you in two. 
 
 My ! he talk so rough, so queeck, 
 You weel weesha you could be 
 Som'where elsa w'en you see 
 
 Padre Domineec. 
 
 Padre Domineec McCann 
 Stop at dees peanutta stan' 
 
 W'en my leetla boy ees seeck; 
 Talk so rough he mak' me cry, 
 Say ees besta boy should die 
 
 So he go to Heaven queeck ! 
 He ees speak so cold to me, 
 Nevva more I wanta see 
 
 Padre Domineec. 
 
 Den gran' doctor com'. Ees queer ! 
 W'en I ask who sand heem here, 
 
 He jus' smile an' weel no speak 
 Only justa w'en he say: 
 "You no gatta cent to pay, 
 
 I gon' feex dees boy dat's seeck." 
 
 ! beeg-hearta man, an' true ! 
 
 1 am gattin' on to you, 
 Padre Domineec ! 
 
 40 
 
X 
 
 This for my last. It is not poetry, it is not 
 blank verse, and yet it is something better than 
 fine prose. So I have arranged it (without 
 transposing words or sentences or in any other 
 way tampering with it) in verse form instead 
 of in prose form, as I found it. I use it here 
 to stand for the CHARM ATI VE (a new word 
 for the chop suey). 
 
 No one has ever been able to analyze charm, 
 qualitatively or quantitatively. Consequently I 
 cannot tell what it is that gives this piece its 
 charming effect. I have tried it on temper- 
 aments seemingly different from any of mine, 
 and watched, not in vain, for low-voiced ap- 
 proval. I have never been able to find out 
 who wrote it or where it originally appeared. 
 
 Having nothing particular in mind to set 
 up by the side of this sort of writing, I turned 
 to Literature, Ancient and Modern, by dear 
 old Peter Parley. Now Peter Parley picked 
 a peck of perfect pippins, and that is the peck 
 of perfect pippins that Peter Parley picked. 
 
 41 
 
He, you know, was one of the fathers of easy 
 reading. Then I turned to that restful volume 
 for jaded readers, A Book for a Corner, by 
 Leigh Hunt, one of the granduncles of easy 
 reading. Then I turned to De Foe, one of the 
 big grandfathers of easy reading. In all I 
 found elusive, indescribable literary charm. 
 
 Of course I hunted for something in Gold- 
 smith that would reveal to me the true nature 
 and substance of charm. I found the charm in 
 plentiful supply, but not the revelation. I 
 turned to Burns, and found the soul but not 
 the secret. I gave up the quest. You might 
 as well see and hear Julia Sanderson in the 
 Girl with the Brogue and try to explain what 
 it is that makes you shiver with delight. 
 
 By the way, speaking of Bobbie, please read 
 slowly the first stanza of what he said to a 
 mouse — 
 
 Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie, 
 
 what a panic's in thy breastie ! 
 Thou need na start awa sac hasty, 
 Wi' bickering brattle ! 
 
 1 wad be laith to rin an* chase thee 
 Wi' murd'ring pattle! 
 
 42 
 
and the second — 
 
 I'm truly sorry man's dominion 
 
 Has broken Nature's social union, 
 
 An' justifies that ill opinion 
 
 Which makes thee startle 
 
 At me, thy poor earth-born companion. 
 
 An' fellow-mortal ! 
 
 and the — Oh ! it's hard to stop when you are 
 reading Burns. 
 
 I do not make any extravagant claims for 
 the following piece, but I hope you will like 
 it: 
 
 43 
 
h 
 
 S 
 
 THE MOUSE 
 
 scene: a court of law 
 
 John White (a zvarder) examined: 
 
 My name's John White. 
 
 I am a warder of the gaol in which the prisoner 
 was confined for misdemeanor. 
 
 He was convicted twelve months back. Since his 
 conviction, his behavior has been marked ex- 
 tremely good. 
 
 I know the prosecutor, William Hinde; he also 
 is a warder in the gaol. 
 
 I remember well the night you mention. 
 
 Yes, I'll swear it was the thirty-first of May — the 
 time was five to nine. 
 
 Hinde went his rounds, and then I heard high 
 words, when he was in the cell of number fifty- 
 six (the prisoner). 
 
 The latter cried, "You hound !" 
 
 And then I saw Hinde reeling out, blood pouring 
 from his lips. 
 
 I said, "What is it?" And he answered me: 
 
 "That beast in there has hit me on the mouth." 
 
 I said, "Whatever made him do it, Hinde?" 
 
 And he replied, "I tried to kill his mouse, accord- 
 ing to the Governor's orders." 
 
 This is my evidence, my Lord. 
 
 44 
 
The Judge (loq.) : 
 
 Prisoner at the bar, since you are not defended 
 on your trial by learned counsel, it rests with 
 you to urge your own defence. 
 
 You have heard the evidence against you; speak. 
 
 The Prisoner (loq.): 
 
 My Lord and Gentlemen of the Jury : 
 
 I have no wish to cross-examine, or attempt to 
 shake the testimony of those who have appeared 
 against me. 
 
 In every particular it is correct; what they have 
 said is true ; what they have not, I will, craving 
 your patience, now recount. 
 
 Near fourteen months ago I was convicted of a 
 crime of which I swear I was quite innocent; 
 which innocence were fully proved, had not the 
 law, alas, debarred my wife from giving evi- 
 dence on my behalf, such as alone could clear 
 my tarnished fame. 
 
 Ill fortune such as this near broke me down. 
 
 I had lost all, wife, children, home. 
 
 Desolate, I wasted in my prison-cell ; hopeless — 
 existing, true — but living not. 
 
 One night, when I was served my humble fare, a 
 little mouse crept out upon the floor, and eyed 
 askance the dreaded human form. 
 
 I threw some food, and, scared, it scampered off; 
 but pangs of hunger lured it out again and made 
 it share my meal; a welcome guest. 
 
 So every night it came, until at last it grew so 
 
 45 
 
tame I fed it from my hand; it slept with me 
 
 and nestled in my sleeve. 
 I took it in my pocket when I went for exercise 
 
 with others in the yard ; and much amusement — 
 
 aye — and envy, too, I have excited when I 
 
 showed my prize. 
 I had no friends. 
 I grew to love this mouse, as these dumb animals 
 
 are often loved by those who find all others cold 
 
 and false. 
 One night — it was the fatal thirty-first of May — 
 
 the warder Hinde came to my cell when my 
 
 little pet was sporting on my hand. 
 He said, "They talk about this mouse of yours; 
 
 just let me see if it's as tame as White, the 
 
 warder, says; I want to see if it will come and 
 
 feed from my hand if I hold it out." 
 Little suspecting this inhuman fiend, I lured my 
 
 little pet, who quaked with fear, unwilling yet 
 
 to court a stranger's touch. 
 The cruel hand closed on it, and he laughed. 
 "Enough of this !" he cried. "The Governor says 
 
 he won't allow this insubordination; come, bid 
 
 your friend good-bye, I'm going to crush him." 
 I sprang erect. Oh, God ! My every nerve tingled 
 
 with fear for my poor little pet. 
 "You hound !" I cried ; and then I hit out straight 
 
 into the face of this inhuman fiend. 
 Thank God, he dropped the mouse, which, fright- 
 ened ran, and found a haven e'en from whence 
 
 it came. 
 This is. tny. crime, .and I. am, in your .haads. 
 
 46 
 
The Judge {sums up) : 
 
 Gentlemen of the Jury: 
 
 I am content, I sum this case as briefly as I can. 
 
 This tale is touching and, I doubt not, true; but 
 you must deal with facts, not sentiments; it 
 rests with me alone to mitigate the punishment, 
 which, be assured, shall be awarded with re- 
 spect to law. 
 
 Foreman of the Jury (log.) : 
 
 My Lord, we are agreed, and find the prisoner 
 guilty, but most strongly recommend him to the 
 mercy of this Court. 
 
 The Judge (delivers sentence) : 
 
 Prisoner at the bar, you stand convicted of an 
 assault on William Hinde, your warder, for 
 which the sentence of the Court receive, name- 
 ly, that you be imprisoned for one day, and that 
 without hard labor, to run concurrently with 
 the sentence you are undergoing. 
 
 Furthermore, I have here — now, can you bear 
 good news? — a packet from the Home Office 
 commanding your release, upon a pardon 
 granted by Her Majesty the Queen; for now it 
 seems another has confessed the crime for 
 which you have already suffered wrongfully. 
 
 Thus you are free ; and I may further add, John 
 White, the warder has for you outside a little 
 friend of yours, unhurt, but caged. 
 
 I wish you well. 
 
 Stop the applause in Court! 
 
 47 
 
CROWDED OUT 
 
 Yes, this was crowded out, but I am going 
 to get it in if the pressman has to tie it to 
 the chase, as autocratic editors sometimes say. 
 No author's name is mentioned. It is credited 
 merely to the Northwest. 
 
 It is hardly fair anyway, to call this a poem 
 — it's a word-dance — you can hear the fiddle. 
 
 I'll bet you a dollar you can't read this thing 
 through and not move your feet. 
 
 Balance all an' swing yer sweets ! 
 Shake yer spurs an' make 'em rattle ! 
 Keno ! Promenade to seats. 
 
 Oh, lordy, lordy, how I wish I could have 
 written that! 
 
 49 
 
AN IDAHO BALL 
 
 Git yo' little sage hens ready, 
 
 Trot 'em out upon the floor — 
 Line up there, you cusses ! Steady ! 
 
 Lively, now ! One couple more. 
 Shorty ! shed thet old sombrero, 
 
 Bronco, douse thet cigarette, 
 Stop that cussin', Casimero, 
 
 'Fore the ladies ! Now, all set ! 
 
 S'lute your ladies, all together ! 
 
 Ladies opposite the same — 
 Hit the lumber with your leathers ! 
 
 Balance all, an' swing your dame ! 
 Bunch the heifers in the middle; 
 
 Circle stags and do-se-do ! 
 Pay attention to the fiddle ! 
 
 Swing her round and off you go ! 
 
 First four forward ! Back to places ! 
 
 Second follow — shuffle back ! 
 Now you've got it down to cases — 
 
 Swing 'em till their trotters crack ! 
 Gents all right a-heel and toeing ! 
 
 Swing 'em, kiss 'em if you kin — 
 On to next and keep a-goin' 
 
 Till yer hit yer pards ag'in ! 
 
 50 
 
Gents to centre ; ladies round 'em, 
 
 Form a basket ; balance all ! 
 Whirl yer gals to where you found 'em ! 
 
 Promenade around the hall ! 
 Balance to yer pards and trot 'em 
 
 'Round the circle double quick! 
 Grab an' kiss 'em while you've got 'em 
 
 Hold 'em to it if they kick ! 
 
 Ladies, left hand to your sonnies ! 
 
 Alaman! Grand right and left! 
 Balance all, an' swing yer honeys 
 
 Pick 'em up and feel their heft ! 
 Promenade like skeery cattle — 
 
 Balance all an' swing yer sweets ! 
 Shake yer spurs an' make 'em rattle ! 
 
 Keno ! Promenade to seats. 
 
 51 
 
NOCTES AMBROSIANiE 
 
 We may live without poetry, music, and art ; 
 we may live without conscience, and live with- 
 out heart; we may live without friends; we 
 may live without books ; but — 
 
 Lucile, Lucile, the old boys have not for- 
 gotten you ! 
 
 Take me back to my salad days and I will 
 tell you of a queer kind of tribe of Indians. 
 The Old Grapevine was on the corner of Sixth 
 Avenue, and it is there yet. Mac was there 
 then, and I hope he is there yet ; but I do not go 
 to find out, because I prefer to think of things 
 as they were rather than be sad with one who 
 knows. 
 
 We were a small band of Devilmaycare In- 
 dians, but a great many hunters and trappers 
 rubbed noses with us from time to time. I 
 was the Sagamore of the band, and my top- 
 floor back was the favorite camping-ground. 
 
 We raided Mac's oftener than any other 
 place, because we liked his pewter, and no- 
 
 53 
 
where else did the midnight sun shine so pleas- 
 antly. 
 
 When Mac was glum we knew just how to 
 switch him. It was only necessary to ask him 
 about the old New Yorkers who were among 
 his patrons. "Do you know any of the As- 
 tors?" some one would slyly inquire. The 
 cloud would then slowly lift, as Mac paused 
 to reply: "Well, now, let me think. I don't 
 know John J. or William W., but I am very 
 well acquainted with Tony P." If Mac is 
 alive to-day I'll bet he still tells of his ac- 
 quaintance with Tony P. 
 
 Among our braves were little editors, little 
 reporters, little space-writers, and little poets, 
 with here and there a lusty trout and here and 
 there a grayling. There were also some large 
 and prosperous bummers. Any one was wel- 
 come, regardless of race, color, or previous 
 condition, so long as he had not accomplished 
 anything worth doing. One of our regulars 
 came close to ostracism. It happened in this 
 way: 
 
 He wrote a good deal of clean, smooth verse 
 that was published and easily forgotten. He 
 also wrote a long-story poem that a foolish 
 publisher thought the world was just about 
 
 54 
 
ready for, and he put it out in book form. 
 I had read it before publication, and reported 
 to the boys thus : "It's all right. It's as smooth 
 as slippery elm. It's fine. They will think 
 Byron has come back to life." We were a 
 happy crowd when the book was born, because 
 we felt it would be a deader — and it was. 
 
 Now this fellow had a short poem he had 
 not given out that I was afraid might be the 
 real thing. I was not cocksure that we had 
 not been harboring a genius after all. 
 
 One day, in a kingdom by the sea, this fel- 
 low and I meandered down Broadway study- 
 ing the signs, a favorite diversion, to see if 
 we could not find something to take the place 
 of the old Broadway pleasantry, ''I saw you 
 in Mclntyre's drug store" (Ewen Mclntyre). 
 When we reached Mr. Tweed's monument we 
 discovered that we had nothing in our pockets 
 to count but that poem, written in a clear, neat 
 hand. Passing through to Beekman Street, he 
 said to me with a kindling light in his timid 
 eye: 
 
 "Wait on the corner here, and I will show 
 you what I can do." 
 
 He went straight to a small publishing 
 house, and inside of ten minutes, just long 
 
 55 
 
enough, I felt, for them to see what I had 
 seen in the poem, he came up the street, wav- 
 ing a small green flag. It was a five- 
 dollar bill. I remember well the feeling 
 I had as I looked first at him and then 
 at William. "Is it possible," I murmured to 
 myself, "that we have a genius in our midst?" 
 I was rather joyously crestfallen, however, as 
 I had nothing of importance in my own midst 
 just then. Still, I demanded the facts, and I 
 got them before I would budge. My friend 
 had done some hack work for that man, and 
 he had now proved to be One Noble Pub- 
 lisher — and I repoorted the same to Flannigan. 
 
 Mr. Reader, have you ever walked up 
 Broadway, before it was spoiled, on a sunny 
 afternoon in the early fall, when Lee marched 
 over the mountain-wall, and dropped in at 
 Wildey's, and Black's, and the Metropolitan, 
 watching your tank meter and your gastric 
 rheostat carefully, in order to keep the line 
 working just right for Sinclair fishballs, a 
 Continental sour, and a Park & Tilford cigar? 
 That's what we did; for, like Little Willie, 
 we knew just what to do. 
 
 Ah ! them was happy days ! 
 
 Nevermore, nevermore! 
 
 S6 
 
One of our chief delights on ambrosial 
 nights was to capture a ninny, take him to 
 the wigwam, start a game of pennyante, un- 
 load our systems of their accumulation of wit- 
 ticism and repartee, and get fixed for the even- 
 ing work. That joyful job was to make a 
 poet of a ninny. Of course, I do not mean 
 that we wanted to make him write poetry, 
 but to work on him until we made him feel 
 like a poet. 
 
 The course was a simple one, but was varied 
 according to the temperature of the brute. 
 One case is enough to give a general idea of 
 the entire curriculum. He was a young fel- 
 low with glistening upper cheeks and a dis- 
 solving eye, whose only books were woman's 
 looks and folly all they taught him. His cross 
 was to search titles for a big insurance com- 
 pany that even in those days was strictly a 
 philanthropic institution. 
 
 We started in with Don Juan. I may as 
 well tell you now that no matter what the 
 temperature of the victim, gin or water, beer 
 or s'prilla, corncob pipe or cigarette, we could 
 always find in Byron what we wanted. All 
 up for the Sagamore toast! 
 
 57 
 
Byron, Byron, Byron! 
 
 Here's a health to thee. Devil Byron ! 
 
 Having soothed our ninny with some of 
 those passages in the Don which real human 
 beings, Hke Gertrude Atherton, for instance, 
 can read without getting blood poisoning, we 
 would gradually induct his timorous and 
 doubting soul into the arcana of the beautiful. 
 I have never known (with one exception) the 
 following item from the Don to fail us : 
 
 'Tis sweet to hear the watchdog's honest bark 
 Bay deep-mouth'd welcome as we draw near 
 home ; 
 
 'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark 
 Our coming, and look brighter when we come; 
 
 'Tis sweet to be awaken'd by the lark. 
 Or lull'd by falling waters ; sweet the hum 
 
 Of bees, the voice of girls, the song of birds. 
 
 The lisp of children, and their earliest words. 
 
 Etc. 
 
 Turn we back to the Hebrew Melodies, and : 
 
 She walks in beauty like the night 
 Of cloudless climes and starry skies; 
 
 And all that's best of dark and bright 
 Meet in her aspect and her eyes; 
 
 Thus mellow'd to that tender light 
 Which heaven to gaudy day denies. 
 
 Etc. 
 
 58 
 
Forward all to the Childe : 
 
 Adieu, adieu ! my native shore 
 
 Fades o'er the waters blue ; 
 The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar, 
 
 And shrieks the wild sea-mew. 
 Yon sun that sets upon the sea 
 
 We follow in his flight; 
 Farewell awhile to him and thee, 
 
 My native Land — Good Night ! 
 
 Etc, 
 
 And now we are off for fair. How about 
 old Ben? Listen: 
 
 Drink to me only with thine eyes, 
 
 And I will pledge with mine; 
 Or leave a kiss but in the cup. 
 
 And I'll not look for wine. 
 The thirst that from the soul doth rise 
 
 Doth ask a drink divine; 
 But might I of Jove's nectar sip, 
 
 I would not change for thine. 
 
 Etc. 
 
 Hand me that Hood: 
 
 Oh, saw ye not fair Ines? 
 
 She's gone into the west, 
 To dazzle when the sun is down, 
 
 And rob the world of rest; 
 
 59 
 
She took our daylight with her, 
 
 The smiles that we love- best, 
 With morning blushes on her cheek, 
 
 And pearls upon her breast. 
 
 Etc. 
 
 For heaven's sake, give me my Willis: 
 
 On the cross-beam, under the Old South bell, 
 The nest of a pigeon is builded well. 
 In summer and winter that bird is there. 
 Out and in with the morning air; 
 I love to see him track the street, 
 With his wary eye and active feet; 
 And I often watch him as he springs, 
 Circling the steeple with easy wings. 
 Till across the dial his shade has passed, 
 And the belfry edge is gained at last; 
 'Tis a bird I love, with his brooding note, 
 And the trembling throb in his mottled throat. 
 
 Etc. 
 
 And now we begin to mount. Up, up we 
 go to Keats and Shelley: 
 
 Hail to thee, blithe spirit! 
 
 Bird thou never wert, 
 That from heaven, or near it, 
 
 Pourest thy full heart 
 In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. 
 
 Etc, 
 
 60 
 
Well, here we are at last to the final test. 
 If our ninny can see this we have him for 
 keeps and Keats: 
 
 St. Agnes Eve — Ah, bitter chill it was! 
 
 The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold; 
 The hare limped trembling through the frozen 
 grass, 
 And silent was the flock in woolly fold; 
 Numb were the beadsman's fingers while he told 
 
 His rosary, and while his frosted breath, 
 Like pious incense from a censer old. 
 
 Seemed taking flight for heaven without a 
 
 death. 
 Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his prayer 
 he saith. 
 
 Full on the casement shone the wintry moon, 
 And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair breast. 
 
 Etc. 
 
 Tis done. Another soul saved from hell. 
 He's ours! 
 
 The morning sun comes peeping over the 
 hills, comes peeping over the hills. 
 
 It is the morrow. I am sitting at the proof 
 table. In comes Mr. Ninny. 
 
 "Hello, Bill ; that was a great night for me. 
 I like it, I do." 
 
 6i 
 
"Yes, yes ; it's all right, if you don't get too 
 much of it." 
 
 "I guess that's so. By the way, Sagamore, 
 what are gules?" 
 
 I draw the curtain. The jig is up. I knew 
 instantly what was in his mind. 
 
 "Why," I said, "Eimer & Amend make a 
 specialty of gules. You can get all you want 
 for ten cents. You don't have to warm them." 
 
 My thoughts being so fixed on the old boys, 
 for whose diversion these pages have been 
 printed, I have overlooked the fact that there 
 may be youngsters of theirs who are doing 
 much the same as the old fellows did. To 
 those youngsters I address a few lines of ad- 
 vice from experience. 
 
 There is nothing in reason or theology to 
 restrain you from loving many things. You 
 may love success, without harm ; you may love 
 money, without injury; you may love poetry, 
 without disaster ; you may love a woman, with- 
 out fear of recovery — but I charge you — you 
 must not love children — you might lose them. 
 
 I see it now, as clear and sharp as the light- 
 ning's streak — the white bed — the gentle little 
 face, just bathed by loving hands — the hair 
 smoothed back from the fine forehead — the 
 
 62 
 
strain of anxiety passing from the eyes of the 
 two watchers — merely an ill-turn, this — all 
 better, now — to-morrow will be a glad day 
 again — but what is this he says — "I see two 
 papas and two mammas, and I love them both 
 the same." — My God! my God! He has gone 
 — gone — that boy — that little gentleman ! — our 
 boy — my boy ! — Now is the time — and I pinion 
 her arms to her side and hold that poor in- 
 sane woman in a vise. It is my duty, because 
 I am a man. 
 
 A few steps up Mahonia path in Greenwood, 
 near one of the large trees, is a fair-sized stone 
 bearing the two names. It shows that one was 
 about a year and a half old, and the other 
 fourteen. The observer may think that it 
 would have been complete if there had been 
 another, say about midway between these ages. 
 Ha ! ha ! It is complete. 
 
 Sunday after Sunday, summer and winter, 
 you may find there a commonplace man and 
 woman, moving about in the usual way, talk- 
 ing of the grass, or the flowers, or the ever- 
 green, sometimes smiling — never weeping — no 
 tears there — it's four years now. No, sir. You 
 must go down into the cellar when you hear 
 the coal rattling, and catch the man working— 
 
 63 
 
you must go up on the second floor and catch 
 the woman on her knees — merely tidying up 
 the old school-books, if you are a student of 
 life, and want some of its minor details. Then, 
 then, you may find out something that Christ 
 himself never knew ! 
 
 Now, youngsters, that's all you are going 
 to get from me. I am truly obliged to you for 
 this opportunity, for I have been bursting to 
 tell it to some one, all these long years, and 
 I had never thought of you. Of course I 
 could not tell it to her, because she is a woman, 
 and it is my duty to clothe and support her. 
 
 To resume. The toughest case we ever had 
 to deal with was a combination mule. He was 
 six in one, namely: a chemist, a court officer, 
 a Jesuit (I guess), a classical scholar (he 
 always pronounced it Kikero), a chess player, 
 and a murderer (of the violin). 
 
 Now the editor of the Gotham Weekly 
 Gazette, to which I at one time contributed, 
 without adequate remuneration a rather newsy 
 column under the caption, "Brooklyn Breath- 
 ings," says the best joke ever written is that 
 in which the country jay, seeing a giraffe for 
 the first time, exclaimed : "Hell ! there ain't no 
 such animal !" I respectfully beg to differ. I 
 
 64 
 
think the best joke is the old-timer in which 
 a fly Ht above the staff of the cornet player, 
 and he played the fly. 
 
 We tried this idea on our fiddling friend by 
 carefully altering his score at a point that we 
 thought might perhaps cause him to break a 
 string, instead of sawing it off. It was a fail- 
 ure. His eyes bulged a little more than usual, 
 but that was all the effect we could get. Then 
 we gave it up, and told him he could go to 
 hell if he wanted to. 
 
 The only good he ever was to us was to 
 enable us to make what we believed to be a 
 new definition, thus: CHALCEDONY— A 
 plastic substance having a soul. 
 
 Once upon a time I was asked whether I 
 had ever written a poem. 
 
 I had. 
 
 It seemed so easy a thing to do that I de- 
 cided to try it; but I determined it should not 
 be like anything Byron ever wrote. The sub- 
 ject I particularly liked was : "A Vision of 
 Loveliness." At any cost, it must be realism. 
 So I struck off this line and an eighth: 
 
 Nor freckle, pimple, mole, nor wart 
 Has she. 
 
 fO^ 65 
 
Beyond that I was unable to go. So I 
 changed the subject to "Nodhead Apples," be- 
 cause I used to regard the flavor of those 
 apples as truly exquisite. I finished that one, 
 and sent it in gratuitously, but no one printed 
 it. 
 
 If Artemus Ward had been one of our In- 
 dians he would probably have called me an 
 amoosin' cuss in some things. Anyway, I had 
 made up my mind that that poem might, could, 
 would, and should, may, can, and must be 
 printed. So I took a stick, went to the L. P. 
 case, set up the poem, took it to the proof- 
 press, wet the paper with a sponge, and rolled 
 the log. 
 
 Behold the miracle ! My poem was printed 
 • — edition limited to one copy. I pasted that 
 copy in my personal scrap-book, and it is there 
 now. Following is a true transcript: 
 
 Nodheads ; 
 
 They are in the market — 
 
 Nodhead apples from New England trees; 
 
 In my boyhood how they bobbed among the 
 leaves. 
 How they toppled in the breeze — 
 Nodhead apples on New England trees. 
 
 66 
 
Tetoskies grew there in that garden ; 
 
 Dangled high the ruddy Dane, 
 Baldwin, Winter Sweet, Russet, and that beauty — 
 
 The almost purple Blue Pearmain. 
 
 But the Nodheads in the corner, 
 And the green light shadows there. 
 And the crooked trunk and branches, 
 And the dappled windfalls huddling, 
 Where the grass and weeds grew tall. 
 Near the moss-grown tumbled-down stonewall — 
 Nodhead apples from 
 New England trees ; 
 In the market now you'll find them. 
 
 It is said that a publisher is a blockhead — 
 that he does not know a good thing when he 
 sees it. Believing that, and being now a pub- 
 lisher of my own poem, I resolved to have a 
 parley, a la De Foe's Captain Singleton. So 
 I sought one of my primordial enemies, and 
 said : 
 
 ''Will you give me your opinion of my 
 poem ?" 
 
 "Do you call that a poem?" 
 
 "That is not for me to say. Do you not 
 call it a poem?" 
 
 *T do not call it anything. What does it 
 mean ?" 
 
 "Can't you see what it means ?" 
 
 ^7 
 
*'Do you expect me to see nothing?" 
 
 ''What do you mean by nothing?" 
 
 ''Nothing — not any thing." 
 
 "Then in your opinion that is not a poem; 
 but can you tell me why it is not a poem?" 
 
 "Do you expect me to prove a nullity ?" 
 
 "A nullity?" 
 
 "A nullity." 
 
 "I suppose not; but will you kindly tell me, 
 as man to man, what you would call it if you 
 had to call it something?" 
 
 "Punk." 
 
 "Punk?" 
 
 "Punk." 
 
 "Punkr 
 
 "P-U-N-K !" 
 
 Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun 
 is shining bright. The band is playing some- 
 where, and somewhere hearts are light; and 
 somewhere — 
 
 Some time after this catastrophe three or 
 four of us were sitting in Mac's at the table 
 near the stove, sipping hot Scotch. There was 
 to be a change on the morrow. We were about 
 to break camp. The subject of wealth and 
 ambition came up. The name of a very rich 
 man was mentioned. 
 
 68 
 
"I do not envy him," I said. 
 
 "Why not?" asked our poet, who was be- 
 ginning to lament the years he had wasted. 
 
 ''Because," I repHed, "he has had but one 
 thought all his life, and can never have any- 
 thing now but money." 
 
 "But what can you and I have?" he asked. 
 
 "Memories," I replied. 
 
 "The Sagamore has spoken well," quoth the 
 poet. 
 
 69 
 
ADDENDUM TO THE 
 NOCTES 
 
 I was surprised and pleased a few days ago 
 to learn how Queed had turned out. I knew 
 him quite well, and the others, the Two Queeds, 
 first rate. The Indians of the old camping- 
 ground always spoke of him as Queered. 
 
 I had no idea there was anything in that 
 fellow. But that only shows once more what 
 a woman can do. The old umbrella grabber 
 at the Astor said he understood Queed had a 
 job offered to him somewhere in the South. 
 He thought they said Norfolk, but wasn't 
 sure. 
 
 ''Why," I said, "that four-eyed fish wouldn't 
 work!" 
 
 But who this man Harrison is who wrote up 
 Queered, I have no idea. He certainly has a 
 sweet-scented middle part in his name — Syd- 
 nor. Ah, there, Sydnor ! He did a pretty good 
 job alleesamee, believee me. Of course, he, 
 
 70 
 
Sydnor, will go the way they all do — give the 
 publishers what they, the publishers, think 
 they, the people, want — write for the Saturday 
 Morning Pest — and peter, peter, peter. 
 
 As I was saying, I knew Queed quite well. 
 One day I met him on the library steps, and 
 asked him whether he had read the letter I 
 had sent to the Sim over my pseudonym, which 
 is as follows: 
 
 LAST PRINCIPLES : BY A BROOKLYN 
 STUDENT OF HERBERT SPENCER 
 
 To the Editor of The Sun. 
 
 Sir: — Never having been able to find any sim- 
 ple explanation of the doctrine of evolution, I 
 here state what I think I have learned from the 
 works of Herbert Spencer and others about the 
 master key, which seems to be regarded as the 
 most important academic discovery of the past 
 century. All the phenomena of business, morals, 
 religion and physics are now so quickly accounted 
 for by those who understand the new philosophy 
 that anything which helps to make its meaning 
 plain may be regarded as important. 
 
 If my definitions are inaccurate or inadequate, 
 perhaps some of your readers may give a clearer 
 explanation of the terms here treated: 
 
 I. Evolution is the law by which an event may 
 be foretold after it takes place. 
 
 71 
 
2. Natural selection is the process of choosing 
 what you have after you get it. 
 
 3. Survival of the fittest is the method of proof 
 by which a living dog becomes better than a dead 
 lion. H. C. White. 
 
 Brooklyn^ April 27. 
 
 He had read it, of course, as all he ever did 
 do at that time was to read. And that was the 
 only time I ever saw him smile. It was a 
 terrible sight. But I was bound to get some- 
 thing out of him, so I said : 
 
 "Well, what do you think of it?" 
 He was himself again in an instant, and re- 
 plied in the old touch-me-not style : 
 "I don't think I quite understand it." 
 A short time after Queered went South, as 
 I was cutting through Minetta lane, I ran into 
 Tim Queed. 
 
 "Hello, Tim," I cried; "how's graft?" 
 "Aeough, pooty good," he replied. 
 "It's rumored in society," said I, "that the 
 young feller has caught onto a job in Norfolk. 
 Is that straight goods ?" I asked. 
 
 "Naeough, they ain't nothin' into it." 
 After a moment's pause, I asked : 
 "Did you hear how Jim Barclay came near 
 getting pinched ?" 
 
 72 
 
''How's that?" asked Tim, with interest. "I 
 thought he had the finest pertection in the Vil- 
 lage." 
 
 "Well, you see, Jim was taking his regular 
 walk up Sixth avenue, and on the way back 
 he lost that flower out of his buttonhole. The 
 flatties picked him up for a con man, and 
 wouldn't let him go below Fourteenth street 
 until Barney Martin came along and identified 
 him as Jim Barclay without his flower!" 
 
 I dodged Tim's club, and passed on to get 
 my giblet stew in the place where they knew 
 how to make a giblet stew. 
 
 But who this man Harrison is who wrote up 
 Queered, I have, as I have already said, no 
 idea. I don't keep track of them nowadays, 
 as I used to. That reminds me that I ought 
 to feel older and more dignified than I used to. 
 But I don't. I love truth in all its forms or 
 disguises the same as ever. Septimus Locke 
 says truth is a ghastly thing. I don't believe 
 that — yet. I would like to know what that 
 fellow Chesterton thinks on the subject. Why, 
 I would run a block in the rain now, as I 
 have done many a time, to catch up with three 
 inches of black silk stocking showing above a 
 high-cut button-shoe — if it looked to be true. 
 
 n 
 
Less than a month ago in Flatbush avenue, 
 in the window of a little art store, not far from 
 the Orpheum, I stood close to the glass gaz- 
 ing at a bunch of truths — naked truths. Along 
 came a quartette of civil engineer's helpers 
 with their transits, tapes, khaki trousers, and 
 persiflage. "That's right. Pop," said one of 
 them; "look 'em over, look 'em over." 
 
 Now, as some of the old boys will see this 
 booquita of mine, if I can find out where they 
 are, I am going to give here a few paragraphs 
 from that write-up just to show what a honey- 
 pot Queered fell into : 
 
 Engrossed with her papers, she moved toward 
 him; but he, with a directness which would not 
 flinch even in this untried emergency, deliberately 
 intruded himself between her and the table; and 
 so once more they stood face to face. 
 
 "I don't understand you," he began, his man- 
 ner at its quietest. "Why do you want to do 
 this for me?" 
 
 At this close range, slie glanced once at him 
 and instantly looked away. His face was as 
 white as paper; and when she saw that, her heart 
 first stopped beating, and then pounded off in a 
 wild, frightened paean. 
 
 "I — can not tell you — I don't know — exactly." 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 74 
 
She hardly recognized his voice ; instinctively 
 she began backing away. 
 
 "I don't think I — can explain. You — rather ter- 
 rify me this morning." 
 
 "Are you in love with me?" he demanded in 
 a terrible voice, beginning at the wrong end, as he 
 would be sure to do. 
 
 Finger at her lip, her blue eyes bright with 
 unshed tears, resting upon his in a gaze as direct 
 as a child's Sharlee nodded her head up and down. 
 
 75 
 
L'ENVOI 
 
 When I look over my collection and stop 
 with irritation to read once more one of the 
 hundreds of fine things I have found, I am 
 dumb. How do these people do these things? 
 Is it sweat? Is it genius? I can not believe 
 in spirits except those that are distilled. Why, 
 that's it, after all — Genius is a spirit that is 
 distilled from anything that has it in it. 
 
 And now, ye little children of genius : Sally 
 (I knew another Sallie once, and I love her 
 yet for what she was and proved to be), and 
 Florence, and Strickland, and Gerome, and 
 Ernest, and Josephine, and Anon, and The 
 Roman, and Thomas, and the Llouse, and the 
 little Sage Hen, gather around in this far 
 night hour, and hear the words of the Saga- 
 more: You are not happy; you are like chil- 
 dren on a merry-go-round stabbing at and 
 missing the worthless little iron ring; I am 
 sorry for you ; I am with you, but not of you. 
 Worruk, ye Dagos. 
 
 76 
 
BY THE SAME AUTHOR 
 
 VOCABULARY OF CHECKERS 
 
 A dictionary of words, terms, and phrases used 
 in the game called Checkers, or English Draughts. 
 Cloth, $2.00. 
 
 "It is difficult to believe that so simple a game as checkers 
 should have developed so extensive a vocabulary as Mr. William 
 Timothy Call has gathered in 'Vocabulary of Checkers.' It 
 fills 200 good-sized pages. The author's _ definitions are ency- 
 clopaedic, and include a mass of interesting information about 
 the game." — N. Y. Sun. 
 
 "To the growing body of checkerists who take an interest in 
 the literature of the pastime, and are pleased to view with ap- 
 probation the various attempts by high-minded devotees of Dameh 
 to add dignity and quiet charm to an otherwise simple and unas- 
 suming subject, it will bring keen enjoyment. No matter how 
 quaint or provincial, or how modern and precise the term 
 sought, it will be found in this remarkable collection. Mr. Call 
 must have gone to a great deal of labor to produce so acceptable 
 a work, and he is deserving of fullest thanks for the fruit of 
 his peculiar genius." — N. Y. Tribune. 
 
 THE LITERATURE OF CHECKERS 
 
 A description of all the books, pamphlets, and 
 
 magazines devoted to the game from 1756 to the 
 
 present day; giving current value of all rare or 
 
 scarce v^orks; 227 entries. Cloth, $1.00. 
 
 "A magnificent and painstaking contribution to draughts litera- 
 ture." — Suffolk Chronicle, England. 
 
R. D. YATES, CHECKER PLAYER 
 
 An intimate biography of the greatest of checker 
 players; covering anecdotes, opinions, methods, 
 triumphs, all his games in full; incidentally a his- 
 tory of checkers in America. Cloth, $1.00. 
 
 "We have rarely read so engrossing a work," — The Umpire, 
 Manchester, England. 
 
 THE SAFE CHECKER PLAYER 
 
 Vol. I. — The Black Side. Devoted exclusively to 
 play; showing a safe course to the player who 
 starts the game, however his opponent may attack 
 him at any point. Leather, vest-pocket size, 50 
 cents. 
 
 Vol. II. — The White Side. A companion vol- 
 ume; showing a safe course to the second player, 
 however his opponent may start the game or carry 
 out the attack. Leather, vest-pocket size, 50 cents. 
 "These little books contain the essence of many volumes of 
 published play, and are invaluable as a short but thorough equip- 
 ment for the practical player." — Draughts World, Glasgow, Scot- 
 land. 
 
 ELLSWORTH'S CHECKER BOOK 
 
 A book for beginners; arranged according to 
 suggestions of the late Charles Ellsworth, the pro- 
 fessional blind checker player. Paper, 25 cents. 
 
 "Contains, in addition to much that is entertaining, some of 
 the most valuable instruction on the rudiments of the game that 
 is to be found in any treatise." — Newark Advertiser. 
 
 THE LITTLE GRAMMAR 
 
 Original in every way— new in design, new in 
 
 method, new in doctrine. Large type. Cloth, 50 
 
 cents. 
 
 "To get into thirty-five pages a practically complete English 
 grammar, which covers all the irregularities of the English tongue, 
 and sets the wanderer right when he goes astray grammatically, 
 is truly an achievement. Mr. Call has done a remarkable work 
 in this grammar." — Butte Inter Mountain. 
 
 "It comprehends all there is to grammar." — Brooklyn Eagle. 
 
 "It epitomizes in thirty-five pages of concentrated wisdom all 
 a boy would be expected to digest from a volume of 350 pages 
 in the regular school course." — Albany Argus. 
 
SCIENTIFIC SOLITAIRE 
 
 A new game of Solitaire, or Patience, based on 
 exact calculation, and eliminating memorizing. 
 Paper, 20 cents. 
 
 "Any one understanding cards at all can not fail to comprehend 
 the author's clear and lucid explanation." — San Francisco Call. 
 
 SHORTHAND FOR GENERAL USE 
 
 Intended for those who would like to be able to 
 write shorthand without hesitation, connecting one 
 letter with another as freely as in longhand, and 
 not be obliged to master a highly scientific treatise 
 in order to obtain brevity and speed enough for 
 common purposes. Paper, 25 cents. 
 "A little book. One of its great recommendations is its sim- 
 p'icity." — Rochester Post-Express. 
 
 "Opens up many new avenues." — Cincinnati Star. 
 
 "Any one can utilize it for general work." — Columbus Journal. 
 
 KBOO: The Counting Game 
 
 A scientific, historical pastime, with a past, a 
 present, and a future. Paper, 25 cents. 
 
 "Among civilized people, chess and draughts can alone be 
 classed as games of pure skill, entirely free from chance. A 
 third game, Kboo, equally free from chance, and affording un- 
 limited opportunity for the exercise of mental skill, is played 
 over the whole of Africa and Southern Asia, and by the negroes 
 of the West Indies, but seems never to have been taken up by 
 European races." — National Geographers' Magazine. 
 
 TEN GREAT LITTLE POEMS 
 
 This book; 50 cents. 
 
 C. M. POTTERDON 
 
 ^Dealer in ChecKer 'BooK^s 
 HAWTHORNE, N. J. 
 
 General Sales Agent for W, T. CALL 
 
1 
 
30 19' » 
 
One copy del. to Cat. Div. 
 
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