A Natural Conclusion, After the Wet Spell.
SHE'D read my book and praised its worth, and I was just conversing -
Of subjects new there 's such a dearth-on weather and rehearsing
The charms of May: "a tricksy wench" I called her, I remember
(Some dainty phrase I fashioned, too, for August and September).
I said the months were "artist-souled"; I thought that rather fetching-
The summer using pigments bold, the winter simply etching.
Her eyes flashed bright a moment and she smiled her admiration;
Then, looking very sweet and bland, she made this observation:
"I fear I 'm not the soul you dreamed - I'm infinitely duller;
I thought of late they 'd really seemed to work in water-color."
[The Rev. Henry Ware, Jr., lying sleepless in his
berth on board ship, once amused himself by weaving
into the story of the Deluge all the rhymes of the word
"ark" that he could summon up. One night, in a period
of insomnia, I tried the same experiment-though in a
lighter and more secular vein -on the word "balloon,"
and before I fell asleep got through several of the
rhymes here given. Afterwards I tried how many
more rhymes to the word could be mustered, and the
result was the following nonsense-sketch.-C. P. C.]
A WIZARD once went up in a balloon,
And with him took his wicked old baboon.
And as he sailed unto himself did croon
A mocking parody on "Bonnie Doon."
'T was on the one and twentieth night in June,
Above him shone the splendid summer moon,
Nearly as bright as though 't were afternoon
The difference twixt a white and octoroon,
With here and there a shadow of quadroon
(This simile seems not inopportune).
The wizard chanted now a mystic rune
More like an incantation than a tune.
Then faster onward swept this strange balloon
Until they reached the Brockenberg. Here soon
They spied their king. His face was like a prune,
Withered and blue; his feet had crimson shoon;
His cloak was scarlet lined with dark maroon,
And edged with fiery gold and bright galloon;
His eyes resembled those of a raccoon;
He spoke a language not unlike Walloon,
And leered and swaggered like a macaroon
Who saunters up and down some gay saloon,
A wild and lawless carnival buffoon,
Yet fierce as any bloody bold dragoon.
His purse was filled with many a gold doubloon,
And in his hand he bore a large harpoon.
He had a tail and horns. It were a boon
To have with one a very lengthy spoon,
If dining with him. (Let us not impugn
The old proverb.) Then, as though he were Haroun
Himself, he beckoned to the weird balloon,
Which about midnight took him in. And soon,
Speeding o'er wave and rock and sandy dune,
The Devil raised a terrible typhoon,
Enough to make the soul and senses swoon,
And laughed along the air, as when a loon
Laughs o'er some dark and pestilent lagoon.
Then sped they to the land of the Tycoon,
Where they all lit, and danced a rigadoon!
LOVE, at your door young Cupid stands
And knocks for you to come:
The frost is in his feet and hands,
His lips with cold are numb.
Grant him admittance, sweetheart mine,
And by your cheering fire
His lips shall loosen as with wine
And speak forth my desire.
He left me not an hour ago,
And when the rascal went
Barefooted out into the snow
I asked him whither bent.
Quoth he: "To her whose face is like
A garden full of flowers,
To her whose smiles like sunlight strike
Across the winter hours."
No more he said, nor need of more
Had I to know. I knew
His path lay straight unto your door-
That face belongs to you.
"Godspeed," I cried, and give her this
When you her face shall see";
And on his lips I set a kiss,
A Valentine from me!
YE, who love, the young and true,
Youth is fittest time to woo,
Trifle not as worldlings do,
If that ye need not tarry;
Linger not till love is dead,
Take not worldly pride instead,
Woo and wed ere youth is sped,
Woo your mate and marry.
Ye who love not, wed not: nay,
Each, as his own heart may say,
Each, as he may trace his way,
As his life may carry-
Perhaps a love above may wait,
Perhaps on earth will linger late,
Wait, wait, nor mar your fate:
Wait- ah! do not marry.