THE BARITONE
He was a wonderful Metropolitan singer.
His name had been blazoned over these United States,
And in Europe it was as well known.
Records of him could be bought in the smallest hamlet;
Nothing but praise had been shed upon the glory of his name.
In May he was scheduled to sing in Chicago
At a festival where thousands were to foregather
To do praise to him and his voice.
Two days before he left, he came to his manager's office
With a sickly expression all over his rotund face
And a deathly gasp in his voice.
One thought he needed a doctor,
Or the first aid of some Red Cross nurses.
He was ushered into the private office
To find out his trouble.
This was his lament in short;
A friend, in the hurry of the moment,
Had procured tickets for him on the Twentieth Century
Which demanded an extra fare of six dollars,—
And he wanted to ride on the cheapest train.
So we got him tickets on another road
Which takes thirty six hours to Chicago and perhaps more,
And the great singer, whose name has been blazoned over these United States
And was as well known in Europe,
Walked out contented and smiling like a young boy.
PATRIOTISM
The patriotic orchestra of eighty five men
Was keyed to an extraordinary patriotic pitch
For these were patriotic concerts,
Supported by the leading patriots of the town,
(Including a Bulgarian merchant, an Austrian physician and a German lawyer),
And all the musicians were getting union wages—and in the summer at that.
So they were patriotic too.
The Welsh conductor was also patriotic,
For his name on the program was larger than that of the date or the hall,
But when the manager asked him to play a number
Designated as "Dixie,"
He disposed of it shortly with the words:
"It is too trivial—that music."
And, instead, he played a lullaby by an unknown Welsh composer,—
(Because he was a Welshman)....
The audience left after the concert was over
And complimented itself individually and collectively on "doing its bit"
By attending and listening to these patriotic concerts.
THE PILLOW CASES
The train was due to arrive at eleven that night,
But owing to the usual delay it did not arrive until one.
The reporters of the leading dailies
Were still waiting grouchily on the station platform for the great star.
For weeks his name had blotted out every bare wall,
And the date sheets of his coming had reddened the horizon.
Now he steps off the train, tired and disgruntled.
What cares he for the praise of the public and their prophets
Awaiting him impatiently at the station?
It's a bed he wants—any bed will do;
The quicker he gets it, the better for the song on the morrow.
But in cooking the news for the public
One a.m. is the same thing as noon day.
So they rushed the star with these questions:
"Not conscripted yet?..."
"How do you like this town?..."
"Will you give any encores tomorrow?..."
"When will the war end?..."
Ruthlessly he plowed through them,
Like a British tank at Messines.
The tenor wanted a bed,
But Lesville wanted a story....
On the platform patiently nestled were twenty six pieces of luggage,
Twenty six pieces of luggage, containing more than their content,
Twenty six pieces of luggage would get him the story, he had not given himself.
Craftily, one lured the reporters to look on this bulging baggage,
"Pillows and pillows and pillows ..." was whispered,
"Tonight he will sleep on them."
Vulture-like swooped down the porters,
Bearing them off to the taxis.
Next morning the papers carried the story:
"Singer Transports His Own Bedding,"
But the artist slept soundly on Ostermoors that night.
The baggage held scores for the orchestra.