HERE IS THE TALE

AFTER RUDYARD KIPLING

Here is the tale—and you must make the most of it!
Here is the rhyme—ah, listen and attend!
Backwards—forwards—read it all and boast of it
If you are anything the wiser at the end!
Now Jack looked up—it was time to sup, and the bucket was yet to fill, And Jack looked round for a space and frowned, then beckoned his sister Jill, And twice he pulled his sister's hair, and thrice he smote her side; "Ha' done, ha' done with your impudent fun—ha' done with your games!" she cried; "You have made mud-pies of a marvellous size—finger and face are black, You have trodden the Way of the Mire and Clay—now up and wash you, Jack! Or else, or ever we reach our home, there waiteth an angry dame— Well you know the weight of her blow—the supperless open shame! Wash, if you will, on yonder hill—wash, if you will, at the spring,— Or keep your dirt, to your certain hurt, and an imminent walloping!" "You must wash—you must scrub—you must scrape!" growled Jack, "you must traffic with cans and pails, Nor keep the spoil of the good brown soil in the rim of your finger-nails! The morning path you must tread to your bath—you must wash ere the night descends, And all for the cause of conventional laws and the soap-makers' dividends! But if 'tis sooth that our meal in truth depends on our washing, Jill, By the sacred right of our appetite—haste—haste to the top of the hill!" They have trodden the Way of the Mire and Clay, they have toiled and travelled far, They have climbed to the brow of the hill-top now, where the bubbling fountains are, They have taken the bucket and filled it up—yea, filled it up to the brim; But Jack he sneered at his sister Jill, and Jill she jeered at him: "What, blown already!" Jack cried out (and his was a biting mirth!) "You boast indeed of your wonderful speed—but what is the boasting worth? Now, if you can run as the antelope runs and if you can turn like a hare, Come, race me, Jill, to the foot of the hill—and prove your boasting fair!" "Race? What is a race" (and a mocking face had Jill as she spake the word) "Unless for a prize the runner tries? The truth indeed ye heard, For I can run as the antelope runs, and I can turn like a hare:— The first one down wins half-a-crown—and I will race you there!" "Yea, if for the lesson that you will learn (the lesson of humbled pride) The price you fix at two-and-six, it shall not be denied; Come, take your stand at my right hand, for here is the mark we toe: Now, are you ready, and are you steady? Gird up your petticoats! Go!" And Jill she ran like a winging bolt, a bolt from the bow released, But Jack like a stream of the lightning gleam, with its pathway duly greased; He ran down hill in front of Jill like a summer-lightning flash— Till he suddenly tripped on a stone, or slipped, and fell to the earth with a crash. Then straight did rise on his wondering eyes the constellations fair, Arcturus and the Pleiades, the Greater and Lesser Bear, The swirling rain of a comet's train he saw, as he swiftly fell— And Jill came tumbling after him with a loud triumphant yell: "You have won, you have won, the race is done! And as for the wager laid— You have fallen down with a broken crown—the half-crown debt is paid!" They have taken Jack to the room at the back where the family medicines are, And he lies in bed with a broken head in a halo of vinegar; While, in that Jill had laughed her fill as her brother fell to earth, She had felt the sting of a walloping—she hath paid the price of her mirth! Here is the tale—and now you have the whole of it, Here is the story—well and wisely planned, Beauty—Duty—these make up the soul of it— But, ah, my little readers, will you mark and understand? Anthony C. Deane.

THE WILLOWS

The skies they were ashen and sober,
The streets they were dirty and drear;
It was night in the month of October,
Of my most immemorial year;
Like the skies I was perfectly sober,
As I stopped at the mansion of Shear,—
At the "Nightingale,"—perfectly sober,
And the willowy woodland, down here.
Here once in an alley Titanic
Of Ten-pins,—I roamed with my soul,—
Of Ten-pins,—with Mary, my soul;
They were days when my heart was volcanic,
And impelled me to frequently roll,
And made me resistlessly roll,
Till my ten-strikes created a panic
In the realms of the Boreal pole,
Till my ten-strikes created a panic
With the monkey atop of his pole.
I repeat, I was perfectly sober,
But my thoughts they were palsied and sear,—
My thoughts were decidedly queer;
For I knew not the month was October,
And I marked not the night of the year;
I forgot that sweet morçeau of Auber
That the band oft performèd down here;
And I mixed the sweet music of Auber
With the Nightingale's music by Shear.
And now as the night was senescent,
And star-dials pointed to morn,
And car-drivers hinted of morn,
At the end of the path a liquescent
And bibulous lustre was born:
'Twas made by the bar-keeper present,
Who mixèd a duplicate horn,—
His two hands describing a crescent
Distinct with a duplicate horn.
And I said: "This looks perfectly regal;
For it's warm, and I know I feel dry,—
I am confident that I feel dry.
We have come past the emeu and eagle,
And watched the gay monkey on high;

Let us drink to the emeu and eagle,—
To the swan and the monkey on high—
To the eagle and monkey on high;
For this bar-keeper will not inveigle,—
Bully boy with the vitreous eye;
He surely would never inveigle,—
Sweet youth with the crystalline eye."
But Mary, uplifting her finger,
Said, "Sadly this bar I mistrust,—
I fear that this bar does not trust.
Oh, hasten! oh, let us not linger!
Oh, fly!—let us fly—ere we must!"
In terror she cried, letting sink her
Parasol till it trailed in the dust,—
In agony sobbed, letting sink her
Parasol till it trailed in the dust,—
Till it sorrowfully trailed in the dust.
Then I pacified Mary, and kissed her,
And tempted her into the room,
And conquer'd her scruples and gloom;
And we passed to the end of the vista,
But were stopped by the warning of doom—
By some words that were warning of doom.
And I said, "What is written, sweet sister,
At the opposite end of the room?"
She sobbed, as she answered, "All liquors
Must be paid for ere leaving the room."
Then my heart it grew ashen and sober,
As the streets were deserted and drear—
For my pockets were empty and drear;
And I cried, "It was surely October,
On this very night of last year,
That I journeyed—I journeyed down here—
That I brought a fair maiden down here,
On this night of all nights in the year.
Ah! to me that inscription is clear:

Well I know now I'm perfectly sober,
Why no longer they credit me here,—
Well I know now that music of Auber,
And this Nightingale, kept by one Shear."
Bret Harte.

A BALLAD

IN THE MANNER OF R-DY-RD K-PL-NG

As I was walkin' the jungle round, a-killin' of tigers an' time; I seed a kind of an author man a writin' a rousin' rhyme; 'E was writin' a mile a minute an' more, an' I sez to 'im, "'Oo are you?" Sez 'e, "I'm a poet—'er majesty's poet—soldier an' sailor, too!" An 'is poem began in Ispahan an' ended in Kalamazoo, It 'ad army in it, an' navy in it, an' jungle sprinkled through, For 'e was a poet—'er majesty's poet—soldier an' sailor, too! An' after, I met 'im all over the world, a doin' of things a host; 'E 'ad one foot planted in Burmah, an' one on the Gloucester coast; 'Es 'alf a sailor an' 'alf a whaler, 'e's captain, cook and crew, But most a poet—'er majesty's poet—soldier an' sailor too! 'E's often Scot an' 'e's often not, but 'is work is never through For 'e laughs at blame, an' 'e writes for fame, an' a bit for revenoo,— Bein' a poet—'er majesty's poet—soldier an' sailor too! 'E'll take you up to the Artic zone, 'e'll take you down to the Nile, 'E'll give you a barrack ballad in the Tommy Atkins style, Or 'e'll sing you a Dipsy Chantey, as the bloomin' bo'suns do, For 'e is a poet—'er majesty's poet—soldier an' sailor too. An' there isn't no room for others, an' there's nothin' left to do; 'E 'as sailed the main from the 'Orn to Spain, 'e 'as tramped the jungle through, An' written up all there is to write—soldier an' sailor, too! There are manners an' manners of writin', but 'is is the proper way, An' it ain't so hard to be a bard if you'll imitate Rudyard K.; But sea an' shore an' peace an' war, an' everything else in view— 'E 'as gobbled the lot!—'er majesty's poet—soldier an' sailor, too. 'E's not content with 'is Indian 'ome, 'e's looking for regions new, In another year 'e'll ave swept 'em clear, an' what'll the rest of us do? 'E's crowdin' us out!—'er majesty's poet—soldier an' sailor too! Guy Wetmore Carryl.