Poems for Pale People A Volume of Verse — Themes and Context

She was very good indeed, But when she was bad, she was horrid."_

_This is nonsense pure and simple and even the most ardent admirers of Mr. Longfellow must, when they try to make "forehead" and "horrid" rhyme, admit that it was very poor verse for the author of "Evangeline."_

_Bret Harte flew off at a tangent when he wrote about "Ah Sin, The Chinaman," a nonsense poem that gave "Bill Nye" his pseudonym. Oliver Wendell Holmes wrote "The Wonderful One-Hoss Shay." Rudyard Kipling is often "caught with the goods on him" and Mark Twain wrote an "Ode to Stephen Dowling Botts."_

_And Great Scott! I almost forgot that even such a gentle, domestic creature as the cow has been the unconscious inspiration of much nonsense and has doubtless often chewed the bitter cud of reflection in deploring her undesired popularity. First she was forced (very much against her will, no doubt) to jump over the moon to the undignified strains of "Hey Diddle, Diddle." Then, just when beginning to breathe easily again after that astounding performance, Gelett Burgess came along and gave her more notoriety by raising the question as to whether there was such a thing as a "purple cow." And even today in many of the rural districts there are old farmers who never heard of Burgess and his "purple cow" who will tell you solemnly that "there is a cow of a sort of purplish color." Which goes to prove that after all nonsense is only sense plus--NON._

The poems in this collection have appeared from time to time in The Kentucky Post, The Cincinnati Post, The Cincinnati Commercial Tribune, Humanity and The Valley Magazine.

WHY THE MOLE IS BLIND.

In days gone by, when cows could fly And goblins rode on bears; When fairies danced upon the green And giants moped in lairs, There lived alone upon a shelf A tinsie, winsie little elf.

Just when the stars came out at night And moonbeams filled the earth with light, Down from his perch this little elf Would jump and wander by himself. He wore a pair of little wings Tied in their place by golden strings.

One day he took a kind of notion To take a trip upon the ocean. He combed his hair and washed his face And put his little wings in place, Then from his shelf he softly stole And went to see his friend the mole Who gave to him a pea-green boat And guaranteed that it would float.

A funny thing about this boat 'Twas patterned from a ten-pound note. The little elf was greatly pleased And laughed until he sneezed and sneezed; He launched his boat upon the sea And kicked his little heels in glee.

The mole looked on in glad surprise (For in those days all moles had eyes.) He shouted out a loud farewell As the little row-boat rose and fell. The elf picked up a golden oar And soon lost sight of mole and shore.

The elf rowed out for quite a way And in the waves did sport and play, Until at length the sun sank low And then he thought it time to go. Now just as luck would have it then A prowling sea gull left his den.

The savage sea gull loudly laughed To see an elf in such a craft, And swooping down upon the water He did a thing he hadn't oughter, For with his strong and sturdy beak He caused the boat to spring a leak.

He said he longed for a little change And the bank-note boat was just in range; The poor young elf gave one big holler Just as the sea gull made a swallow (And this is strange indeed to follow For a gull himself is just a swallow.)

The faithful mole heard this loud yell And rushed down to the shore pell-mell. Alas, alas he was too late And saw his friend's unhappy fate; He groaned, and shrieked and tore his fur And raised an awful din and stir.

The sea gull heard this awful racket And seized the mole, just like a packet. He carried him across the seas To teach the young gulls A B C's. But the loving mole went blind with rage And they had to put him in a cage, And ever since that fatal night The moles have all been out of sight.

NOW THERE'S A COON IN THE MOON.

There was once an eccentric old coon, Who ate dynamite with a spoon, But when he got loaded The powder exploded-- And now there's a coon in the moon.

Oh, let's go out to the county fair And breathe the balmy country air, And whittle a stick and look at the hosses, Discuss the farmer's profit and losses.

We'll take a look at the country stock And drink some milk from a dairy crock; Look at the pigs and admire the chickens, And try to forget it's hot as the dickens.

Forget there are any political rings Just think of the butter and eggs and things; So wash off the buggy and hitch up the mare, And we'll all go out to the county fair.

O'DOWD OF THE JEFFERSON CLUB.

A maddened horse comes down the street, With waving mane and flying feet. The crowd scatters in every direction; It looks like a fight at a city election. A big policeman waves his hands, And the air is full of vague commands, While across the street a retail grocer Shrieks to his child as the horse draws closer When suddenly out of the mad hubbub, Steps Jimmie O'Dowd of the Jefferson Club.

Every man there holds his breath-- To stop the horse means sudden death. But quick as a flash, O'Dowd makes a dash. With all his might and the horse's mane, He brings the old plug to a halt again. Then every man there doffs his hat And cries "Well, what do you think of that?" Never since the days of Nero Has there been a greater hero.

A night when witches skim the air, When spooks and goblins climb the stair; When bats rush out with muffled wings, And now and then the door-bell rings; But just the funniest thing of all Is 'cause you can't see when they call.

SATURDAY ON THE FARM.

'Tis Saturday morn and all is bright By nature's own endowing; The sun is fiercely giving light, And only me-- Plowing.

Across the river I hear the sound Of a boatman slowly rowing; I have no time to fool around, Especially when I'm-- Hoeing.

And when the dinner hour has come, And thoughts of work are fleeting, I only hear the insects hum, Because I'm busy-- Eating.

At night when all things are at rest, Safe in Old Morpheus' keeping, No troubles do my mind infest, For I am soundly-- Sleeping.

John went into the garden one day And found his baby sister at play;

John hit baby with a brick And laughed because it made her sick.

John is only two and six And loves to do these funny tricks.

O, the circus parade! O, the circus parade! It lays all the politics back in the shade, And the merchants forget that they've got any trade, While many remember they've never been paid As they rushed out to look at the circus parade; And preachers who used to be terribly staid Yell just like boys at the circus parade. Every one's there, both the mistress and maid, All looking on at the circus parade.

And out at the grounds, when you've seen the parade, How delicious it is to drink pink lemonade; And look at the elephant twirling his trunk, And laugh at the capers cut by the monk; Watch the old clown who is acting a dunce, And try hard to see three rings going at once; Gaze at the ringmaster cracking his whip, And watch the tight-rope artist skip. I saw that circus, Yes Sirree! Saw about enough for three.

"Oh lend me five," the young man cried, "My money all is spent." The maiden shook her head and sighed, "I'm sorry but it's Lent."

(Written in collaboration with R. B. Hamilton.)

When Julius Caesar met his death, He muttered in his dying breath: "It is not patriotism now Prompts you to break your friendship's vow." Quoth Brutus, as he stabbed again The greatest of his countrymen: "You're in this fix Through politics."

As on his path Columbus sped, A sailor to the great man said: "Without a break, without a bend, The broad Atlantic has no end." And to the sailor at his side, 'Tis rumored, that great man replied: "I guess I know. You go below."

The snow fell fast on Russia's soil, The soldiers, wearied with their toil, Cried: "'Tis not possible that we Our native France again shall see." Stern ever in the face of death, Napoleon said beneath his breath: "Go take a walk, I hate such talk."

A cherry tree lay on the ground, On George's body, pa did pound; "But pa," George cried, "It seems to me That you are wrong; dis ain't your tree." The old man sadly shook his head And to his wayward son he said: "Don't lie to me I know my tree."

When Dewey on his flagship sailed, The Spaniards never even quailed. "Oh, it ain't possible," said they, "For him to reach Manila Bay." But Dewey merely smiled in glee, "It isn't possible?" quoth he, "Why, hully gee, Just wait and see."

Thus onward as through life we go, Amid the pomp, and glare, and show, We oft some proverb misconstrue And mutter boldly, "'Tis not true." But in their calm, majestic way, We hear the tongues of wise men say: "You go way back And then sit down."

Ting-ling--"South, please, 1085; Why hello, Jim--Oh, Saints alive! It's south, I told you--hello; no, I said once that I could not go.

"Say, can you meet me there tonight? Confound it, Jim, you must be tight. What are you saying anyhow, I've got the wrong ear by the sow?

"Not pretty? Why, she's out o'sight, Oh, shut up; that will be all right. You can't walk there? Why it ain't far; We get there on a 'lectric car.

"Well, Great Scott, man, don't talk all day, But let me know now right away. Miss B----, Oh, let the old girl wait; We won't be out so very late.

"You will? All right then--eight o'clock; Be sure and meet me on the block, Remember now, don't get it wrong; All right, old man (Ting-ling), so long."

I never saw a loaf of bread Conspicuous in its purity, But that I sadly shook my head And left five-cents as surety.

Say, I like toys, Christmas toys. Remember when we were boys Long ago? Then you were a kid Not a beau. And on Christmas Day, Oh, say, We got up in the dark And had a jolly lark Round the fire. The cold air was shocking As we peeped in our stocking-- And, way down in the toe, Now say this is so-- Dad placed a dollar. Made me holler. Yes, sirree,

They were good to me. Remember Jim? Mean trick I did him. You know Jim was surly? Well I got up early Took his dollar out, And put a rock In his sock. Gee, he was mad, Went and told dad; But dad he just laughed And said: Might's well be dead If you couldn't have fun. Then for spite, I kept that dollar 'til night. Funny, seein' these toys Made me think of us boys. But now, Gee! Christmas ain't like it used to be.

THE RUBAIYAT OF A KENTUCKIAN.

Wake for the sun, that scatters into flight, The poker players who have stayed all night; Drives husbands home with reeling steps, and then-- Gives to the sleepy "cops" an awful fright.

I sometimes think that never blows so red The nose, as when the spirits strike the head; That every step one takes upon the way Makes him wish strongly he were home in bed.

The moving finger writes, but having "pull", You think that you can settle things in full, But when you interview the Police Judge, You find that you have made an awful bull.

Some nonsense verses underneath the bough, A little "booze", a time to loaf, and thou-- Beside me howling in the wilderness, Would be enough for one day anyhow.

Good people if you have the mumps, Or ever get down with the dumps; Or have bad cold or aching pains, Or ever suffer with chilblains-- Don't seek your doctor for advice, And pay him some tremendous price, But buy a drug that's safe and sure-- In fact, get Blank's Consumptive Cure.

He led her out across the sand, And by her side did sit: He asked to hold her little hand, She sweetly answered, "Nit."

THE GLORIOUS FOURTH AND ITS MEMORIES.

Have you ever mused in silence upon a summer's day And let your thoughts run riot and your feelings have full sway, As you sprawled full length upon the grass in some secluded dell And breathed the balmy country air, and smelt the country smell?

Then as you muse, And gently snooze, Between thinks You remember those jinks When spirits were high On the Fourth of July.

There was little Willie Browning, the worst of all the boys Who had a sure-nuff cannon that made all kinds of noise; And when the cannon wouldn't go he blew into the muzzle, But what became of Willie's teeth has always been a puzzle.

How the folks looked askance At the seats of our pants, When those giant skyrockets Went off in our pockets! Gee whiz! What fun the Fourth is!

When the red-hot July sun began to wink the clouds away, We were out with whoops and shoutings to celebrate the day. With piece of punk in one hand and crackers in the other, We would troop home later in the day for linseed oil and mother.

But our burns Were small concerns. Our hearts were light, Injuries slight. Not even a sigh On the Fourth of July.

And as you lie and ponder, the thought comes home to you That your youngest boy now celebrates the way you used to do; And the mother that he bawls for to have those small wounds dressed Is the woman whom long years ago you swore you loved the best.

But what funny things Memory brings. Who would have thought That I would be caught With a tear in my eye On the Fourth of July.

When you're feelin' blue as ink An' your spirits 'gin to sink, Don't be weak an' take a drink But Keep Tryin'.

There are times when all of us Get riled up and start a muss, But there ain't no use to cuss, Just Keep Tryin'.

When things seem to go awry, And the sun deserts your sky, Don't sit down somewhere and cry, But Keep Tryin'.

Everybody honors grit, Men who never whine a bit-- Men who tell the world, "I'm IT" And Keep Tryin'.

Get a hustle on you NOW, Make a great, big solemn vow That you'll win out anyhow, And Keep Tryin'.

All the world's a battlefield Where the true man is revealed, But the ones who never yield Keep Tryin'.

There was once a young man quite erratic Who lived all alone in an attic, He wrote magazine verse That made editors curse, But his friends thought it fine and dramatic.

TALE OF THREE CITIES.

A seedy young man in Savanah Fell in love with a rich girl named Anna, But her papa got mad And swore that "By Gad, The fellow shall never Havana!"

But the couple eloped to Caracas, Where the Germans kicked up such a fracas; And he said to his wife, "You can bet your sweet life That papa dear never will track us."

Maud Muller on a summer's day, Raked the meadows, sweet with hay. Nor was this just a grand-stand play; Maud got a rake-off, so they say.

A cat duet. A silhouette. A high brick wall, An awful squall. A moonlit night, A mortal fight. A man in bed, Sticks out his head. Gee Whiz! The man has riz. His arm draws back A big bootjack-- A loud swish, Squish! "What's that?" A dead cat.

Beware the Sissy Boy my child, Not because he's very wild; The Sissy Boy is never that, Although he'll run if you say "Scat!" The Sissy Boy's infinitesimal, He is not worth a duodecimal.

If you should take a custard pie And hit a Sissy in the eye, He would not go before a jury, He'd only blush and say "Oh Fury!" For he is perfumed, sweet and mild, That's just his kind, my dearest child.

One should never strike a Sissy, He is too lady-like and prissy. You do not need to use your fist But merely slap him on the wrist, And if this will not make him budge, Then glare at him and say "Oh Fudge!"

The Sissy sports a pink cravat And often wears a high silk hat; His voice is like a turtle dove's And he always wears the "cutest" gloves. At playing ping-pong he's inured, And his finger-nails are manicured.

He uses powder on his face And his handkerchiefs are trimmed with lace; He loves to play progressive euchre And spend his papa's hard-earned lucre. He wears an air of nonchalance And always takes in every dance.

Socially, he's quite a pet And always fashionably in debt. He hates to be considered slow And poses as a famous beau. He loves to cut a swath and dash When papa dear puts up the cash.

This, my child, is the Sissy Boy Who acts so womanly and coy. His head's as soft as new-made butter; His aim in life is just to flutter; Yet he goes along with unconcern And marries a woman with money to burn.

I never saw a purple cow, You say you never saw one; But this I'll tell you anyhow, I know that I can draw one.

Lobsters haven't any feet, But they have lots of claws; Yet lobster meat is good to eat, And this is strange, because-- A dog is never good to eat, And yet a dog has paws, And so have cats, and so have rats And so have other kind of brats.

A lobster then, so to speak, Is, my child, an awful freak; For if you get him in a stew, He'll blush quite red and glare at you. Yet if you eat much lobster salad, It will make you very pallid.

A funny thing once happened to a German from Berlin, For once he got too gay and seized a swordfish by the fin, This made the big fish angry, and he sawed the German's chin. "Just Tell Them That I Saw You" said the swordfish with a grin.

There once was an old crocodile Who lived on the banks of the Nile. One day, for a meal, He swallowed a wheel, And ate for dessert, an automobile.

(What the Little Boy Thought.)

If I had wings just like a bird Do you know what I'd do? I'd fly way up into the sky An' holler down at you.

I'd fly along the Milky Way Feelin' fine and chipper, An' then I'd drink some buttermilk Fresh from out the Dipper.

I'd skim along through fleecy clouds, An' see the great, Big Bear An' ask him how he liked to live So high up in the air.

Wouldn't it be dandy To fly just when you please, An' go an' ask the Dog-star If he worried much with fleas?

I'd do all kinds of other things If I could only fly, But I am just a little boy An' so I dassn't try.

Said Sue to her suitor: "You'll get a new suit, or I'll sue for a suitor to suit." "Why Sue," said her suitor Who tried hard to suit her, "Your suitor is suited to suit."

(After Walt Whitman.)

That light, that white, that weird, uncanny substance we call snow Is slowly sifting through the bare branches--and ever and anon My thoughts sift with the drifting snow, and I am full of pale regret. Yes, full of pale regret and other things--you know what I mean. And why? Because the snow must go; the time has came to part. Yes, it cannot wait much longer--like the flakes my thoughts are melting 'Tis here, 'tis there, in fact, 'tis everywhere--the snow I mean. Like the thick syrup which covers buckwheat cakes it lies.