L'ENVOI
Brothers in motley, the season is here;
Small is the boon that we sadly invoke:
Butcher it, murder it, jump on its ear!—
Down with the grandmother-funeral joke!
A Plea
Writers of baseball, attention!
When you're again on the job—
When, in your rage for invention,
You with the language play hob—
Most of your dope we will pardon,
Though of the moth ball it smack;
But—cut out the "sinister garden,"
Chop the "initial sack."
Rake poor old Roget's "Thesaurus"
For phrases fantastic and queer;
And though on occasions you bore us,
We will refrain from a sneer.
We will endeavour to harden
Ourselves to the rest of your clack,
If you'll cut out the "sinister garden"
And chop the "initial sack."
Singers of words that are scrambled,
Say, if you will, that he "died,"
Write, if you must, that he "ambled"—
We shall be last to deride.
But us to the Forest of Arden,
Along with the misanthrope Jaques,
If you cling to the "sinister garden"
And stick to "initial sack."
Speak of the "sphere's aberration,"
Mention the "leathery globe,"
Say he got "free transportation"—
Though that try the patience of Job.
But if you're wise you'll discard en-
Cumbrances such as we thwack—
Especially "sinister garden"
And the "initial sack."
Footlight Motifs
I
MRS. FISKE
Staccato, hurried, nervous, brisk,
Cascading, intermittent, choppy,
The brittle voice of Mrs. Fiske
Shall serve me now as copy.
Assist me, O my Muse, what time
I pen a bit of Deathless Rhyme!
Time was, when first that voice I heard,
Despite my close and tense endeavour,
When many an important word
Was lost and gone forever;
Though, unlike others at the play,
I never whispered: "wha'd'd she say?"
Some words she runstogetherso;
Some others are distinctly stated;
Some cometoofast and s o m e t o o s l o w
And some are syncopated.
And yet no voice—I am sincere—
Exists that I prefer to hear.
For what is called "intelligence"
By every Mrs. Fiskeian critic
As usual is just a sense
Of humour, analytic.
So any time I'm glad to frisk
Two bones to witness Mrs. Fiske.
II
Olga Nethersole
I like little Olga,
Her plays are so warm;
And if I don't see 'em,
They'll do me no harm.
My Puritan training
Has kept me from going
To dramas in which
Little Olga was showing.
But I like little Olga,
Her art is so warm;
And if I don't see her
She'll do me no harm.
Ballade of the Average Reader
I try to touch the public taste,
For thus I earn my daily bread.
I try to write what folks will paste
In scrap books after I am dead.
By Public Craving I am led.
(I' sooth, a most despotic leader)
Yet, though I write for Tom and Ned,
I've never seen an average reader.
The Editor is good and chaste,
But says: (Above the public's head;
This is too good; 'twill go to waste.
Write something commonplacer—
Ed.)
Write for the average reader, fed
By pre-digested near-food's feeder,
But though my high ideals have fled,
I've never seen an average reader.
How many lines have been erased!
How many fancies have been shed!
How many failures might be traced
To this—this average-reader dread!
I've seen an average single bed;
I've seen an average garden-weeder;
I've seen an average cotton thread—
I've never seen an average reader.