There was a small boy of Quebec,
Who was buried in snow to his neck;
When they said, "Are you friz?"
He replied, "Yes, I is—
But we don't call this cold in Quebec."
Among living authors, one who has written a great amount of good nonsense is Mr. Gelett Burgess, late editor of The Lark.
According to Mr. Burgess' own statement, the test of nonsense is its quotability, and his work stands this test admirably, for what absurd rhyme ever attained such popularity as his "Purple Cow"? This was first printed in The Lark, a paper published in San Francisco for two years, the only periodical of any merit that has ever made intelligent nonsense its special feature.
Another of the most talented nonsense writers of to-day is Mr. Oliver Herford. It is a pity, however, to reproduce his verse without his illustrations, for as nonsense these are as admirable as the text. But the greater part of Mr. Herford's work belongs to the realm of pure fancy, and though of a whimsical delicacy often equal to Lewis Carroll's, it is rarely sheer nonsense.
As a proof that good nonsense is by no means an easy achievement, attention is called to a recent competition inaugurated by the London Academy.
Nonsense rhymes similar to those quoted from The Lark were asked for, and though many were received, it is stated that no brilliant results were among them.
The prize was awarded to this weak and uninteresting specimen:
"If half the road was made of jam,
The other half of bread,
How very nice my walks would be,"
The greedy infant said.
These two were also offered by competitors:
I love to stand upon my head
And think of things sublime
Until my mother interrupts
And says it's dinner-time.