DISLIKES
BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
I want it to be understood that I consider that a certain number of persons are at liberty to dislike me peremptorily, without showing cause, and that they give no offense whatever in so doing.
If I did not cheerfully acquiesce in this sentiment towards myself on the part of others, I should not feel at liberty to indulge my own aversions. I try to cultivate a Christian feeling to all my fellow-creatures, but inasmuch as I must also respect truth and honesty, I confess to myself a certain number of inalienable dislikes and prejudices, some of which may possibly be shared by others. Some of these are purely instinctive, for others I can assign a reason. Our likes and dislikes play so important a part in the order of things that it is well to see on what they are founded.
There are persons I meet occasionally who are too intelligent by half for my liking. They know my thoughts beforehand, and tell me what I was going to say. Of course they are masters of all my knowledge, and a good deal besides; have read all the books I have read, and in later editions; have had all the experiences I have been through, and more too. In my private opinion every mother's son of them will lie at any time rather than confess ignorance.
I have a kind of dread, rather than hatred, of persons with a large excess of vitality; great feeders, great laughers, great story-tellers, who come sweeping over their company with a huge tidal wave of animal spirits and boisterous merriment. I have pretty good spirits myself, and enjoy a little mild pleasantry, but I am oppressed and extinguished by these great lusty, noisy creatures, and feel as if I were a mute at a funeral when they get into full blast.
I can not get along much better with those drooping, languid people, whose vitality falls short as much as that of the others is in excess. I have not life enough for two; I wish I had. It is not very enlivening to meet a fellow-creature whose expression and accents say, "You are the hair that breaks the camel's back of my endurance, you are the last drop that makes my cup of woe run over;" persons whose heads drop on one side like those of toothless infants, whose voices recall the tones in which our old snuffling choir used to wail out the verses of
"Life is the time to serve the Lord."
There is another style which does not captivate me. I recognize an attempt at the grand manner now and then, in persons who are well enough in their way, but of no particular importance, socially or otherwise. Some family tradition of wealth or distinction is apt to be at the bottom of it, and it survives all the advantages that used to set it off. I like family pride as well as my neighbors, and respect the high-born fellow-citizen whose progenitors have not worked in their shirt-sleeves for the last two generations full as much as I ought to. But grand-père oblige; a person with a known grandfather is too distinguished to find it necessary to put on airs. The few Royal Princes I have happened to know were very easy people to get along with, and had not half the social knee-action I have often seen in the collapsed dowagers who lifted their eyebrows at me in my earlier years.
My heart does not warm as it should do towards the persons, not intimates, who are always too glad to see me when we meet by accident, and discover all at once that they have a vast deal to unbosom themselves of to me.
There is one blameless person whom I can not love and have no excuse for hating. It is the innocent fellow-creature, otherwise inoffensive to me, whom I find I have involuntarily joined on turning a corner. I suppose the Mississippi, which was flowing quietly along, minding its own business, hates the Missouri for coming into it all at once with its muddy stream. I suppose the Missouri in like manner hates the Mississippi for diluting with its limpid, but insipid current the rich reminiscences of the varied soils through which its own stream has wandered. I will not compare myself to the clear or the turbid current, but I will own that my heart sinks when I find all of a sudden I am in for a corner confluence, and I cease loving my neighbor as myself until I can get away from him.
UNCLE SIMON AND UNCLE JIM
BY ARTEMUS WARD
Uncle Simon he
Clumb up a tree
To see
What he could see,
When presentlee
Uncle Jim
Clumb up beside of him
And squatted down by he.
THE LITTLE MOCK-MAN
BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY
The Little Mock-man on the Stairs—
He mocks the lady's horse 'at rares
At bi-sickles an' things,—
He mocks the mens 'at rides 'em, too;
An' mocks the Movers, drivin' through,
An' hollers "Here's the way you do
With them-air hitchin'-strings!"
"Ho! ho!" he'll say,
Ole Settlers' Day,
When they're all jogglin' by,—
"You look like this,"
He'll say, an' twis'
His mouth an' squint his eye
An' 'tend like he wuz beat the bass
Drum at both ends—an' toots and blares
Ole dinner-horn an' puffs his face—
The Little Mock-man on the Stairs!
The Little Mock-man on the Stairs
Mocks all the peoples all he cares
'At passes up an' down!
He mocks the chickens round the door,
An' mocks the girl 'at scrubs the floor,
An' mocks the rich, an' mocks the pore,
An' ever'thing in town!
"Ho! ho!" says he,
To you er me;
An' ef we turns an' looks,
He's all cross-eyed
An' mouth all wide
Like Giunts is, in books.—
"Ho! ho!" he yells, "look here at me,"
An' rolls his fat eyes roun' an' glares,—
"You look like this!" he says, says he—
The Little Mock-man on the Stairs!
The Little Mock—
The Little Mock—
The Little Mock-man on the Stairs,
He mocks the music-box an' clock,
An' roller-sofy an' the chairs;
He mocks his Pa an' spec's he wears;
He mocks the man 'at picks the pears
An' plums an' peaches on the shares;
He mocks the monkeys an' the bears
On picture-bills, an' rips an' tears
'Em down,—an' mocks ist all he cares,
An' EVER'body EVER'wheres!
MAMMY'S LULLABY
BY STRICKLAND W. GILLILAN
Sleep, mah li'l pigeon, don' yo' heah yo' mammy coo?
Sunset still a-shinin' in de wes';
Sky am full o' windehs an' de stahs am peepin' froo—
Eb'ryt'ing but mammy's lamb at res'.
Swing 'im to'ds de Eas'lan',
Swing 'im to'ds de Souf—
See dat dove a-comin' wif a olive in 'is mouf!
Angel hahps a-hummin',
Angel banjos strummin'—
Sleep, mah li'l pigeon, don' yo' heah yo' mammy coo?
Cricket fiddleh scrapin' off de rozzum f'um 'is bow,
Whippo'will a-mo'nin' on a lawg;
Moon ez pale ez hit kin be a-risin' mighty slow—
Stahtled at de bahkin' ob de dawg;
Swing de baby Eas'way,
Swing de baby Wes',
Swing 'im to'ds de Souflan' whah de melon grow de bes'!
Angel singers singin',
Angel bells a-ringin',
Sleep, mah li'l pigeon, don' yo' heah yo' mammy coo?
Eyelids des a-droopin' li'l loweh all de w'ile,
Undeh lip a-saggin' des a mite;
Li'l baby toofies showin' so't o' lak a smile,
Whiteh dan de snow, or des ez white.
Swing 'im to'ds de No'flan',
Swing 'im to'ds de Eas'—
Woolly cloud a-comin' fo' t' wrap 'im in 'is fleece!
Angel ban' a-playin'—
Whut dat music sayin'?
"Sleep, mah li'l pigeon, don' yo' heah yo' mammy coo?"
MY SWEETHEART
BY SAMUEL MINTURN PECK
Her height? Perhaps you'd deem her tall—
To be exact, just five feet seven.
Her arching feet are not too small;
Her gleaming eyes are bits of heaven.
Slim are her hands, yet not too wee—
I could not fancy useless fingers,
Her hands are all that hands should be,
And own a touch whose memory lingers.
The hue that lights her oval cheeks
Recalls the pink that tints a cherry;
Upon her chin a dimple speaks,
A disposition blithe and merry.
Her laughter ripples like a brook;
Its sound a heart of stone would soften.
Though sweetness shines in every look,
Her laugh is never loud, nor often.
Though golden locks have won renown
With bards, I never heed their raving;
The girl I love hath locks of brown,
Not tightly curled, but gently waving.
Her mouth?—Perhaps you'd term it large—
Is firmly molded, full and curving;
Her quiet lips are Cupid's charge,
But in the cause of truth unswerving.
Though little of her neck is seen,
That little is both smooth and sightly;
And fair as marble is its sheen
Above her bodice gleaming whitely.
Her nose is just the proper size,
Without a trace of upward turning.
Her shell-like ears are wee and wise,
The tongue of scandal ever spurning.
In mirth and woe her voice is low,
Her calm demeanor never fluttered;
Her every accent seems to go
Straight to one's heart as soon as uttered.
She ne'er coquets as others do;
Her tender heart would never let her.
Where does she dwell? I would I knew;
As yet, alas! I've never met her.
THE AUTO RUBAIYAT[5]
BY REGINALD WRIGHT KAUFFMAN
Move!—Or the Devil Red who puts to flight
Whate'er's before him, to the Left or Right,
Will toss you high as Heaven when he strikes
Your poor clay carcass with his master-might!
As the Cock crows the "Fiends" who stand before
The Starting-Point, amid the Stream's wild roar,
Shake hands, make wills, and duly are confess'd,
Lest, once departed, they return no more.
For whether towards Madrid or Washington,
Whether by steam or gasoline they run,
Pedestrians keep getting in their way,
Chauffeurs are being slaughtered one by one.
A new Fool's every minute born, you say;
Yes, but where speeds the Fool of Yesterday?
Beneath the Road he sleeps, the Autos roar
Close o'er his head, but can not thrill his clay.
Well, let him sleep! For what have ye to do
With him, who this or Anything pursue
So it take swiftness?—Let the Children scream,
Or Constables shout after—heed not you.
Oh ye who anti-auto laws would make
And still insist upon the silly brake,
Get in, and try a spin, and then you'll see
How many fines you will impose—and take!
Ah, my Beloved, fill the Tank that cheers,
Nor heed the Law's rebuke, the Rabble's tears,
Quick! For To-morrow you and I may be
Ourselves with Yesterday's Sev'n Thousand Years.
A pair of Goggles and a Cap, I trow,
A Stench, a Roar, and my Machine and Thou
Beside me, going ninety miles an hour—
Oh, Turnpike-road were Paradise enow!
Ah, Love, could we successfully conspire
Against this sorry World for our desire,
Would we not shatter it to bits without
So much of damage as a busted tire?
With Gasoline my fading Life provide,
And wash my Body in it when I've died,
And lay me, shrouded in my Cap and Cape,
By some not Autoless new Speedway's side.
Yon "Devil" that goes pricking o'er the Plain,
How oft hereafter will she go again!
How oft hereafter will she seek her prey?
But seek, alas, for one of us in vain!
And when, like her, O Love, you come to take
Your morning spin for Appetite's sweet sake,
And pass the spot where I lay buried, then,
In memory of me, fling wide the Brake!