TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE

Some minor changes to the text are noted at the [end of the book.]

THE FAIRY
GODMOTHER-IN-LAW

BOOKS BY OLIVER HERFORD

WITH PICTURES BY THE AUTHOR

PUBLISHED BY CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS

The Fairy
Godmother-in-Law

By

Oliver Herford

With Some Pictures
By the Author

New York · Published by

Charles Scribner’s Sons

Copyright, 1905, by
OLIVER HERFORD

Published, November, 1905

THE TROW PRESS · NEW YORK

To M. H.

CONTENTS

THE FAIRY
GODMOTHER-IN-LAW

PREFACE

It is not always well to place

Unbounded Faith in Fairy Lore,

Believing that in every case

They all lived Happy evermore.

Stranger than Fiction though we deem

The Truth, it does not follow, too,

That Fairy Tales, because they seem

Still Stranger, must be still more True.

Far be it from me to assail

The Truthfulness of Fairy Writ,

But let us take a Well-Known Tale

And see what really came of it.

I
THE WEDDING

When Cinderella wed the Prince

She thought him all her Fancy Painted,

And this was not surprising since

They were not very Well Acquainted.

While he, not dreaming where she got

Glass slippers, counted on a Dot.

The Prince was Brave, Industrious, Wise:

Brave in bright Silks and Satins gay,

Wise in the Lore of Ladies’ Eyes,

And most Industrious—at Play;

A Leader, too—in Fashion’s Set;

And Deep—that is to say, in Debt.

Who was the Somebody of Note?

(I never could remember names)

Was it Mark Twain or Mr. Choate

Or Mrs. Ward or Henry James

That penn’d those words of Wise Import,

“Who weds in haste repents—in court”?

But let us not Anticipate.

The Princess wore a Plain Gold Frock;

No Fairy Dress to spoil the fête

By vanishing at Twelve o’clock.

This time no Spell her pleasure blighted—

Her god-mamma was not invited.

Not that she really meant to flout

Her Benefactress; but you see

She had not told the Prince about

Her Fairy Godmother, lest he

Might change his mind if he foresaw

A Fairy God-mamma-in-law.

A Fairy may be Good or Ill,

A Godmother Morose or Gay;

A Mother-in-law, say what you will,

Is not immortal any way.

But wouldn’t it a Bridegroom stun

To think of all three rolled in one?

II
THE LETTER

All day the envelope she scann’d.

But though her royal name it bore,

’Twas in an Unfamiliar Hand.

The Postmark puzzled her still more.

The Princess could not understand

Who’d write to her from——

She turned it Left, she turned it Right,

She pinched it, shook it to and fro,

She held it up against the Light,

And topsy-turvy wise—but no,

It still continued to preserve

Its air of Self-contained Reserve.

One day the Princess in a Pet,

It was her Last, her only hope,

Summoned her Trusty Cabinet,

To Sit upon the Envelope,

And at no matter what expense,

To end her Terrible Suspense.

But all their Learnéd Consultations

Ended in Nought, for what avail

Mere Man’s Unerring Calculations

Where WOMAN’S Intuitions fail?

Their Weighty Brains refused to cope

With that Unyielding Envelope.

She put the matter in the Hands

Of the Police; she went to see

Astrologers from Foreign Lands

And experts in Chirography;

And offered Large Rewards to all

Who furnished Clues, however small.

But no one came for the Reward,

Nor would the Envelope betray

The Secret in its bosom stored,

When by the Merest Chance one day

She overheard a Child, who cried,

“If it were mine, I’d look inside.”

Tossing the Tot a Thousand Pounds,

The Princess to her Chamber sped;

Her Joy and Rapture knew no bounds;

She tore the Envelope and read

A note from god-mamma, to say,

She might expect her any day.

III
THE VISIT

One day as Cinderella ate

Her Simple Lunch of sixteen courses,

A Golden Coach drove up in state,

Drawn by a team of Mouse-Grey horses,

And on the carriage door were scrolled

The Letters F. G. M., in gold.

The Princess dropped a Jelly Roll,

Which tipped with Pink her Crystal Shoe,

And cried, “O my prophetic soul!

My God-mamma! What shall I do?”

Then, Ladylike, she cut the knot

By simply fainting on the spot.

Strong Fairy Salts soon brought her to.

She looked up in a startled way.

“Why, God-mamma—can that be you?

How sweet! I hope you’ve come to stay.

The Prince will simply be enchanted.”

“Your Wish,” quoth God-mamma, “is granted.”

True to her word, the Fairy soon

Was quite at home. The royal Attic

She turned into a Grand Saloon,

Where with her cats she reigned ecstatic.

“Henceforth,” said she, “I’ll live at leisure,

And only work my Spells for pleasure.”

She had a Sense of Humor dry,

She loved her Little Joke—and tho’

None of her Tricks were prompted by

A spiteful heart or love of show,

To love one’s Joke does not, it’s true,

Imply that Others love it too.

She had a disconcerting way,

When Argument became a bore,

Of saying what she had to say

And disappearing through the Floor,

A joke that never failed to cause

A weird, if not side-splitting, Pause.

At meals, if there appeared a dish

God-mamma did not find appealing,

She’d wave her wand, and Fowl or Fish

Would promptly vanish thro’ the ceiling,

And in its place would be Fried Mole

Or Crocodile en casserole.

One day some Ladies of the Court

Performed a Play which bored her so,

She up and cried, “That’s not my sort!”

And changed it to a Ballet show.

A Tactless Joke, which caused, of course,

Much talk—and more than one Divorce.

But nothing gave her such delight,

Or keener Sense of Humor showed,

Than when the Prince came home at night;

She’d change his door-key to a Toad,

And laugh to see it hop about,

Or turn the Key-Hole inside out.

Once, weary of her Pesterings,

The Prince apostrophized a bird,

Exclaiming, “Would I too had wings!”

It chanced the Fairy overheard,

And, with the very best intentions,

Granted him wings of Large Dimensions.

Now wings (as any Naturalist

Will tell you) are but variations

Of arms, and cannot co-exist

With such-like Brachial Formations.

Accordingly, he lost his arms,

Which handicaps a Prince’s charms.

To his embarrassment and woe,

He had to be both dressed and fed

And brushed and bathed and put—but no,

That he was spared. His Wings when spread

Were Forty Feet from side to side;

Bed was a luxury denied.

He soon repented of his Whim.

With wings like windmill sails, of course,

No room was big enough for him.

So all night long, in Chill Remorse,

He perched upon the roof. At dawn

The spell was happily withdrawn.

About this time the Princess planned

A grand Subscription Ball, to aid

The Starving Shepherds of the land.

The Prince, when told the shepherds’ trade

Included Shepherdesses too,

Subscribed a Thumping I. O. U.

Upon the evening of the ball,

It chanced that God-mamma-in-law,

Flitting about the Palace Hall,

Passed by the Prince’s Suite, and saw

His gladsome Evening Robes outspread

In neat array upon the bed.

She eyed them sadly. Here in places

The silken pile was wearing thin;

And here were stains and here were traces

Of where the Moth had broken in.

“Aha! Aha! it’s plain to see

This is a little job for me!

“I’ll make him a new suit,” said she,

“A brave new suit without a flaw.

I’d like to know what Home would be

Without a God-mamma-in-law.”

And in its place upon the bed

A Fairy Substitute she spread.

All unobserved, she slipped away,

Delighted with her Little Game,

And, seeking some new trick to play,

To Cinderella’s closet came.

Where for her golden robe of state

She left a Fairy Duplicate.

Dressed for the ball, they drove in State,

Looking superlatively swell;

God-mamma pleaded mal de tête

And from her window waved farewell.

Her voice rose o’er the people’s cheers,

“Be back at twelve o’clock my dears!”

IV
THE BALL

Before the splendors of the Ball

The Boldest Metaphor grows tame;

Superlatives abjectly crawl

Back to their lexicon in shame,

And Synonyms in shrieking chorus

Take refuge in the deep Thesaurus.

But language has its Pioneers,

Who seek Fresh Words and Postures new,

Slang rushes in where Syntax fears

To tread—so I for Ade halloo,

And say (with George’s kind permission)

It was “A Heated Proposition.”

The Princess never dreamed her frock

Of gold was wrought by fairy power.

And set, like an alarming Clock,

To go off at the midnight hour.

Her childish laugh rang with delight:

“Thank God-mamma’s not here to-night.”

Prince Charming looked his very best

To—I mean at—the Ladies Fair;

No dread foreboding stirred his breast;

No Writing on the Wall was there

To Tell him of the Awful Shock

Awaiting him at Twelve O’clock.

V
MIDNIGHT

Again (see chapter on [The Ball])

The Boldest Metaphor grows tame;

Superlatives abjectly crawl

Back to their lexicon in shame,

And Synonyms in shrieking chorus

Take refuge in the deep Thesaurus.

But every cloud that bars the sun

They say with silverwear is lined;

And tho’ they felt they were Undone,

Their Highnesses were cheered to find

At midnight when their Robes took wings,

They kept their—well, their Other Things.

Perchance, Dear Reader, you have noted