L'ENVOI
Most read of readers, if you've read
The works of any old succeeder,
You know that he, too, must have said:
"I've never seen an Average Reader."
Poesy's Guerdon
( * * * I do not believe a single modern English poet is living to-day on the current proceeds of his verse.—From "Literary Taste and How to Form it," by Arnold Bennett.)
What time I pen the Mighty Line
Suffused with the spark divine
As who should say: "By George! That's fine!"
Indignantly do I deny
The words of Arnold Bennett. Why,
Is this not English verse? say I.
And by the proceeds of that verse—
Such as, e. g., these little terc-
Ets—is not filled the family purse?
Do we not live on what I sell,
Sonnet, ballade, and villanelle?
* * *
"We do," She says, "and none too well."
Signal Service
Time-table! Terrible and hard
To figure! At some station lonely
We see this sign upon the card:
[Footnote Asterisk: Train 20: Stops on signal only.]
We read thee wrong; the untrained eye
Does not see always with precision.
The train we thought to travel by
[Footnote Dagger: Runs only on North-west division.]
Again, undaunted, we look at
The hieroglyphs, and as a rule a
Small double dagger shows us that
[Footnote SmallDoubleDagger: Train does not stop at Ashtabula.]
And when we take a certain line
On Tues., Wednes., Thurs., Fri., Sat., or
Monday,
We're certain to detect the sign:
[Footnote SectionMark: $10 extra fare ex. Sunday. ]
Heck Junction—Here she comes! Fft! Whiz!
A scurry—and the train has flitted!
Again we look. We find it—viz.,
[Footnote DoubleBar: Train does not stop where time omitted.]
Through hieroglyphic seas we wade—
Print is so cold and so unfeeling.
The train we wait at Neverglade
[Footnote Paragraph: Connects with C. & A. at Wheeling.]
Now hungrily the sheet we scan,
Grimy with travel, thirsty, weary,
And then—nothing is sadder than
[Footnote PointingHand: No diner on till after Erie.]
Yet, cursed as is every sign,
The cussedest that we can quote is
This treacherous and deadly line:
[Footnote TripleAsterisk: Subject to change without our notice.]
Sporadic Fiction
Why not a poem as they treat
The stories in the magazines?
"Eustacia's lips were very sweet.
He stooped to"-and here intervenes
A line—italics—telling one
Where one may learn the things that he,
The noble hero, had begun.
(Continuation on page 3.)
Page 3—oh, here it is—no, here—
"Kiss them. Eustacia hung her head;
Whereat he said, 'Eustacia dear'—
And sweetly low Eustacia said:"
(Continued on page 17.)
Here, just between the corset ad.
And that of Smithers' Canderine.
(Eustacia sweet, you drive me mad.)
"No, no, not that! But let me tell
You why I scorn your ardent kiss—
Not that I do not love you well;"
No, Archibald, the reason's this:
(Continued on page 24.)
Turn, turn my leaves, and let me learn
Eustacia's fate; I pine for more;
Oh, turn and turn and turn and turn!
"Because—and yet I ought not say
The wherefore of my sudden whim."
Here Archibald looked at Eusta-
Cia, and Eustacia looked at him.
"Because," continued she, "my head—"
I never knew Eustacia's fate,
I never knew what 'Stacia said.
(Continued on page 58.)
Popular Ballad: "Never Forget Your Parents"
A young man once was sitting
Within a swell cafe,
The music it was playing sweet—
The people was quite gay.
But he alone was silent,
A tear was in his eye—
A waitress she stepped up to him, and
Asked him gently why.
(Change to Minor.)
He turned to her in sorrow and
At first he spoke no word,
But soon he spoke unto her, for
She was an honest girl.
He rose up from the table
In that elegant cafe,
And in a voice replete with tears
To her he then did say:
CHORUS
Never forget your father,
Think all he done for you;
A mother is a boy's best friend,
So loving, kind, and true,
If it were not for them, I'm sure
I might be quite forlorn;
And if your parents had not have lived
You would not have been born.
A hush fell on the laughing throng,
It made them feel quite bad,
For most of them was people, and
Some parents they had had.
Both men and ladies did shed tears.
The music it did cease.
For all knew he had spoke the truth
By looking at his face.
(Change to Minor.)
The waitress she wept bitterly
And others was in tears
It made them think of the old home
They had not saw in years.
And while their hearts was heavy and
Their eyes they was quite red.
This brave and honest boy again
To them these words he said:
CHORUS
Never forget, etc.
Ballade to a Lady
(To Annabelle.)
Pipe to the tip I'm handing, Kid;
Get jerry to the salve I throw;
Just paste it in your merrywid
While I pull out the tremolo.
This stuff ain't any paper snow—
I never was a bull con gee—
Wise up to this and sing it slow:
You make an awful splash with me.
My line of bunk is like to skid;
(The subject is so smooth—get joe?)
My fountain pen's an invalid;
I can't dope words like L. Defoe
Puts in describing up a show,
But, kiddo, you have put the bee
On father, surest thing you know.
You make an awful splash with me.
Yop, I'm your little katydid;
Just listen to my chirp of woe;
And now I've made my little bid—
You get it? Follow me? Right-O!
If I could shoot like Eddie Poe,
I guess that you'd be h-e-p,
But here's the bet, now cop it, bo,
You make an awful splash with me.