THE LAUGHING WILLOW

I

Come into the cellar, Maud.

Get a move on! Goodness gracious,

There is nothing to applaud

In bravado ostentatious!

Still Maud lingered, all unheeding,

As the Siren sounded twice;

Above the din her voice came pleading,

“Are you sure there’s no mice?”

II

Above the pandemonium

Of Siren shrill and warning Drum

And Aircraft Gun is heard the roar

Of little Freddy, ætat four;

The cellar dark and dank and dim

No fascination has for him,

The little darling wants to be

Upstairs upon the roof and see

The “fireworks!” “If you ask me—”

Aunt Kate was overheard to say,

“I’d let the dear child have his way!”

III

A hidden Crime, however slight,

Is sure some day to see the light;

Oh, why did Auntie come to stay

With us upon an Air-raid day!

Why did we never think to tell her

That there were Lizards in the cellar

Or Spiders or an Open Drain!

How shall we ever now explain

That “Antique Vase” we said was lost,

That Nile green horror, gold embossed,

Her Wedding Present—there it lay

Before her eyes, as plain as day!

We almost wished a bomb would fall

Upon the house and end it all!

IV

Who is that cowardly Jack Horner

Crouching there in the darkest corner,

Behind the furnace? Look again,

That is no cringing coward, when

Your eyes become accustomed to

The darkness of the cellar, you

Will see it is no other than

Philander Jones and Marian;

Make no mistake, Philander’s dread

Is not a Zeppelin overhead,

But that rude moment when he’ll hear

The beastly Siren sound “All’s clear!”

V

“Where is Molly?” Like a Shell,

Short and sharp, the question fell,

Scattering every one pell mell

From the cellar’s safe retreat

Through the house on panic feet,

Basement, Attic—everywhere

They sought, one hope remained and there

On the Drying-roof they found her,

Shrapnel flashing all around her,

Calm and cool ’mid war’s alarms,

Hugging something in her arms.

“I’s all right—don’t cwy!” said Molly,

“I tame back to det my dolly!”

You’re getting old, you know it,

You are not in the race.

Admit you cannot go it,

The killing, modern pace.

Your methods are too dull for

The modern school of Hate,

Your lake of burning sulphur

Is sadly out of date.

The Hohenzollern’s Kultur

Mocks at your fiery pits,

His double-headed vulture

Has put yours on the fritz.

Beside the fierce, blaspheming,

Mail-fisted Kaiser Bill,

You are a seraph beaming,

An angel of good-will.

But tho’ we can’t deny, sir,

You’re hopelessly outclassed,

You’ve one thing on the Kaiser,

Which is, tho’ first and last

Cried Peter from within,

Awakened by the row,

“Stop that infernal din!

Who are you, anyhow?”

“Don’t bandy words with me!”

Thundered the visitor.

“All doors to me are free.

I am the Emperor.”

“If you’re an Emperor,”

Said Peter, “then I fear

You’ve come to the wrong floor.

We take no Emperors here.

“Our waiting list is filled

With martyrs brave and true

Whose blood an Emperor spilled.

There is no room for you.”

Cowed by Saint Peter’s look,

The Emperor, with a frown,

Cried, “Well, I’m damned!” and took

The elevator—down.

Refrain

Hurray! Hurray! We’ll wave the Stripes and Stars!

Away, away with Emperors and Czars!

And when we get the Kaiser we’ll put him behind the bars,

As we go marching to Berlin!

 (Drums) Berlin! Berlin! etc.

We’re from the dear old U. S. A., the Land of Liberty;

We’ve crossed a hundred rivers and three thousand miles of sea

To teach the Huns a thing or two about Democracy,

As we go marching to Berlin!

 (Drums) Berlin! Berlin! etc.

Refrain

Hurray! Hurray! We’ll show the Prussian swine

That Freedom is the only Right Divine,

And when we catch old Kaiser Bill we’ll pitch him in the Rhine,

As we go marching to Berlin!

 (Drums) Berlin! Berlin! etc.

We’ve left our happy homes that we may help to win the war.

We’re a million strong already, and there’ll soon be millions more;

And when the job is done with Kaiser Bill we’ll mop the floor,

As we go marching to Berlin!

 (Drums) Berlin! Berlin! etc.

Refrain

Hurray! Hurray! We’re going to make it hot

For all the bloody Hohenzollern lot,

And when we get the Kaiser we’ll present him to his Gott,

As we go marching to Berlin!

 (Drums) Berlin! Berlin!

Berlin! Berlin! Berlin!

As we go marching to Berlin!

At the clay-baby contest Fritz

Scored nineteen out of twenty hits;

I

When Crown Prince Willy goes to bed

It is his wont to lay his head

Upon the pillow and extend

His feet towards the other end.

“But does he really wear his hat

In bed?” you ask—well, as to that

I cannot say, I never saw him,

But that’s the way I always draw him.

II

The thing that Germans most admire

Is Crownie’s coolness under fire.

He loves to watch it gleam and glow

’Mid fragrant smoke, an inch or so

Above his nose as he reclines

In some Château behind the lines;

If the Crown Prince had his desire

He would be always under fire!

III

When you or I get up at eight

We do not have to cogitate

And rack our brains concerning just

Which suit to wear, as Princes must;

The Crown Prince has a hundred suits,

Including hats and belts and boots,

Yet such his master-mind, he knows

Which he must wear and just what goes

With what, which chevron, sash or sword,

Each in his Royal Head is stored,

Down to the detail of a spur,

All in a Nut-shell, as it were!

IV

Here is a most uncensored sight!

The Prince, in garb Pre-Adamite

Taking (but tell it not in Gath)

A good old English shower-bath!

Throbs a mighty heart withal

Beneath her armour of Disdain.

Not for naught did Belgium call,

Servia has not cried in vain.

When the gauge of Hate was hurled,

Seven seas at her behest,

From the corners of the world

Brought the bravest and the best.

From the utmost ends of earth,

On their tireless waves they bore,

To the Europe of their birth,

Legions of the land and air,

Spurning Peace, till Peace has brought

Hohenzollern to his fall,

And with the blood of Freemen bought

A Place in Freedom’s Sun for all.

“In my youth,” Father Wilhelm replied to his son,

“I hated my honour to stain

But, now that I’m perfectly sure I have none,

Why, I do it again and again.”

“You are old,” said the Prince, “and you’re getting quite bent,

And rheumatic, yet only just now,

You turned a back somersault into your tent—

Pray why did you do it, and how?”

“In my youth,” Kaiser Wilhelm replied to the Prince,

“I kept all my muscles in training;

And I’ve practised one thing that I learned, ever since—

And that’s to go in when it’s raining.”

“You are old,” said the Prince, “and your head is too light

For anything stronger than water;

Yet you talk without ceasing from morning till night;

Do you think, at your age, that you oughter?”

“In my youth,” said the Kaiser, “I lived upon raw

Spanish onions, I ate with my knife;

And the strength that those onions gave to my jaw

Has lasted the rest of my life.”

“You are old,” said the Kronprins, “and one would suppose,

You would be just a little more humble;

Yet you balance your crown on the end of your nose.

Aren’t you frightened some day it will tumble?”

In his fervour for “Frightfulness” Major Von Beers

Acknowledged no betters and precious few peers.

And every one envied his well-earned repute

For arson and pillage and rapine and loot.

No symphony held such delectable tones

For the ears of Von Beers as the shrieks and the groans

Of women and children bombarded with shell,

Or the crash of a hospital tumbling pell-mell.

One day from Berlin came the order “Refrain

For the present from Frightfulness. Start Press Campaign.

Von Bernstorff has wired we’re getting in wrong

With the Yankees, so play up HUMANITY strong.”

Loud, loud were the wailings of Hofbrau Von Beers.

But duty is duty, so drying his tears,

He purchased a volume by Peter F. Dunne

On “How to be Civilised, though you’re a Hun.”

He swatted up Honour, and Peace and Good-will

For a year seven months and a fortnight until,

You’ll scarcely believe it, that Hun I declare

Acquired a sort of a civilised air.

It was balky, spasmodic and apt to take flight

When a press correspondent was nowhere in sight.

It was clumsy, uncertain and crude, I’m aware,

Yet distinctly suggested a civilised air.

He started at once a colossal campaign

And filled correspondents with fibs and champagne,

And the press correspondents all voted Von Beers

A prince of good fellows, ’mid deafening cheers.

Thenceforth when a soldier forgot to salute,

Von Beers would use kindness instead of his boot.

And he lectured a laggard he’d rather have shot,

If a newspaper man chanced to be on the spot.

He distributed photos of Godfearing Huns

Feeding babies with Beef Broth, Bananas and Buns,

And snapshots of Willie that caught his gay glance

And others depicting him weeping for France.

The fame of Von Hofbrau spread over the land,

And rich Lady nurses proposed for his hand,

I

Ah, Franz! Could you and I with Gott conspire

To grab this sorry little globe entire,

Would we not shatter it to bits, and then

Remould it nearer to our heart’s desire?

II

You all know how, the world to overwhelm

I made a second Sparta of my realm

And “dropped the Pilot” from my ship of State

To lay my own mailed fist upon the helm.

III

And how myself did eagerly frequent

Councils of war and heard great argument

About it and about, and every year

Came out with great and greater armament.

IV

For though in ME and MINE I set great store

And THEE and THINE are terms that I abhor,

Of all that one should care to fathom, I

Was never deep in anything but—war.

V

Bernhardi, Nietzsche, Treitschke, who discussed

Of the “Next War,” so wisely, they are thrust

Like foolish prophets forth, their words to scorn

Are scattered and their mouths are stopped with dust.

VI

With them the seed of warfare did I sow,

And with mine own hand wrought to make it grow.

And this is all the Harvest I have reaped:

“I came like thunder—and like wind I go!”

VII

And lately from Hell’s Cavern Door rose up

A shape Titanic, ravening to sup

On Living Human Fodder, and he bade

Me give him taste of it; and ’twas—The Krupp.

VIII

The Krupp that can with Logic absolute

The plans of modern Strategists confute

The steel iconoclast that in a trice

The strongest Fortress into Dust transmute.

IX

The Krupp no question makes of Aye and No,

But strikes alike Cathedral or Château

And I who send it out into the Field—

I know about it all—I know—I know!

X

And much as War has made an infidel

Of me, and robbed me of my honour, well

I often wonder what the Devil has

One half so devilish as I—In Hell!

XI

Ah, but my innovations people say

Placed war upon a sounder basis? Nay,

’Twas only striking from War’s lexicon

The terms TRUTH, HONOUR, DECENCY, FAIR PLAY.

XII

The Treaties that I set my seal upon

Are turned to dust and ashes, which anon

Like snowflakes falling in a muddy street

Lighting a little hour or two are gone.

XIII

What if my sword can fling the Sheath aside

And naked plunge into the crimson tide,

Were’t not a shame, were’t not a shame for me,

By a “mere scrap of paper” to abide?

XIV

Indeed, indeed, continually I swore

For Peace—but was I solemn when I swore?

And then—then came the Day and sword in hand

My threadbare piety apieces tore.

XV

From Europe’s centre, through the Belgian gate

I rode and at the Door of Paris sate.

And many a city ravished by the road,

But Paris—she is still immaculate.

XVI

Here was the Gate to which I found no key;

Here was the Wall o’er which I might not see.

Some little talk awhile of strategy

There was, and then—good afternoon, Paree!

“Can you spare a Threepenny bit,

Dear Miss Turkey,” said Sir Mouse,

“For Job’s Turkey’s benefit?

I’ve engaged the Opera House!”

“Alas! I’ve naught to spare!”

Said Miss Turkey, “save advice,

I am getting up a Fair,

To relieve the Poor Church Mice.”

The Lord forgive if we transgress

Thus to familiarly address

One of our betters.

But, Jamie, do you no recall

The slate whereon you learned to scrawl

Your Humble Letters?

Well we remember how you drew

Our shapely features all askew,

Unflattering really.

You made A lame and B too fat.

And C too curly—what of that!

We loved you dearly.

From that first day we owned your spell.

And just because you used us well

We served you blindly.

Why, even when you put us through

A fearsome Scottish reel, we knew

You meant it kindly.

Jamie, ’tis said Grand Tales there be

Still biding in the A B C—

If this be true,

Quick, Jamie! Cast your golden net.

Maybe we have the grandest yet

In store for you.

Now Dives to his country seat

Has hied himself away,

And Tabby turned into the street

Must shift as best she may.

No more the cushion soft as silk,

The catnip ball no more;

No more the saucer full of milk

Behind the pantry door.

Nor shall she in the temple prey

Upon the lean church mouse;

The good Lord, too, has gone away

And closed his city house.

Why is it that my well brushed hair,

That now so smoothly lies,

As soon as I descend the stair

Always gets in my eyes?

No wonder, thus deprived of sight,

I step on empty air

And to the bottom of the flight

Rebound from stair to stair.

I’m not the sort of dog that cares

To make a fuss when hit;

But falling down a flight of stairs

Is not the worst of it.

You may talk of the Rebels of Ulster

And the shindy we had to chuck;

But we don’t give a rap for a family scrap

Whin the Prooshuns is running amuck.

Did you hear how Lance Corporal O’Leary,

Mike O’Leary of the Guards,

Wid his own two mits, tore a forthress to bits

Like a blissed conthraption of cards.

He’d a shmile, had Mike, that ’ud span a dyke,

And a fist that ’ud fell a horse,

And he ripped through the mire of blood and barbed wire,

Like a bull through a bunch of gorse.

Whin he waded in, sure ’twas a sin,

The way that he bashed and bruk ’em;

He dropped on thim Huns like forty tons,

And they niver knew what had struck ’em.

“Poor dears,” says Mike, “I’m thinking belike

All the news they’ve been told is lies,

So it’s up to me, ’ere it’s kilt they be,

To put the poor divils wise.

“Thim Huns, I’m told, while outrageous bold

Is over a trifle dull.

Sure, if that’s a fact, ’tis a friendly act

To hammer it through their skull.

“So here’s for insulting old Erin,

By thinking a thraitor she’d be!

And here’s for your Imperor sneerin’!

‘Contemptible army,’ says he.

“Here’s one for the mothers whose pleadin’

You stopped with a shot and a curse,

And one for the girls dead and bleedin’

And the girls that you spared—for worse.

“For the churches you shelled and the priests you felled

Here’s one! And the women, too,

You held for a shield on the battle field,

And the innocent babes you slew.”

Whin O’Leary had done, there was divil a one

Left to tumble to what he said—

Barrin’ only ten, which I’m wrong again,

For eight av the ten was dead.

Above the plate-glass window-pane,

Inviting every passing gaze,

Hung an inscription, large and plain,

“The Husband Shop.” This, in amaze,

Clorinda seeing, stopped wide-eyed,

And stared, then turned and stepped inside.

A floor-walker whose faultlessness

And condescending air proclaimed

One of the table d’haute noblesse,

Approached Clorinda and exclaimed,

With graceful undulating palm:

“Something in husbands? Oui, Madame.”

“We have the latest thing of all

In husbands; kindly step this way.

We’re using them on hats this fall,

In place of plume or floral spray,

The creature being pinned or tied

With chiffon bows on either side.”

He leads the way, all wreathed in smiles,

And wonderful in spotless spats

That flitter like twin butterflies

Along an avenue of hats,

Each one displaying on its brim

A husband—fashion’s latest whim.

Clorinda tries them each in turn

Before the glass; some are too small,

And some too cold, and some too stern,

And some are slightly soiled, and all,

When punctured by the hat-pin’s steel,

Betray by squirms how bored they feel.

At last Clorinda came to one

Marked “Dibbs,” that scarce seemed worth
her while;

But when she tried it on for fun,

It met the hat-pin with a smile,

As if to say, “Oh, beauteous miss,

Even a stab from you is bliss!”

“The very thing! but thrown away

Upon a hat!” Clorinda cried.

“’Twould make a sweet corsage bouquet.”

The shoppers stared electrified,

To see Clorinda Dibbs depart

Wearing a husband next her heart.

Alcibiades J. Skinner

Was a famous after-dinner

Speaker. Great the way

He secured, just by excelling

In the art of Story Telling,

One good meal a day.

Chestnuts more than often passé

He exchanged for Marrons Glacés,

Canvasback and Quail.

Flat the feast and dull the dinner

Lacking that accomplished Spinner

Of Postprandial Tale.

Every mail brought invitations:

Teas and luncheons and collations,

Dinners without end.

No one to a Formal Function

Such impressiveness, such unction,

Such éclat could lend.

At that gruesomest of gruesome

Rites, The Banquet tendered to some

Literary Light,

None could say with such conviction,

“We have Snooks of Snappy Fiction

In our midst To-night.”

How he said it made no matter;

Shaft of Wit or Broadway Patter

Meets with like acclaim.

Latest Mot or Jest Historic,

To the dinner guest plethoric

It is all the same.

When he said, “This moment finds me

Unprepared,” or, “That reminds me,”

There would be a hum

Of expectance, or a rippling

As though Daniel (or Kipling)

Had to Judgment come.

Alas for Fame! As A. J. Skinner

Put it at the Author’s Dinner,

“Fame’s a fickle Jade!”

Had he then an intimation

That his own wide reputation

Was ere long to fade?

From that day his after-dinner

Stories thinner grew and thinner.

Sorry was his case.

Rare the dinner invitation,

Rarer still the lunch—Starvation

Stared him in the face.

One day as his eye was wandering

O’er a map, he fell to pondering:

“If I cross the Main,

Somewhere ’twixt the Poles and Tropics

I may find some brand new Topics

For my food campaign!”

So one Friday A. J. Skinner

Bought a passage and an “Inner”

On a sailing ship;

Not for sport or relaxation,

Not for rest or recreation—

’Twas a business trip.

Fatal trip, had he but known it!

Or a Fortune Teller shown it

Written on his palm!—

How one morning bright and sunny,

With a breeze as soft as honey,

And a sea as calm—

Somewhere in the South Pacific

There would spring up a terrific

Tropical typhoon—

Smite their helpless ship and bear it

On a mountain wave and tear it

Like a Toy Balloon.

Luckily for Mr. Skinner,

When she sank he was not in her.

Clinging to a Spar,

Being, too, an expert swimmer,

Soon he saw the breakers’ glimmer

On a sandy bar.

Lucky, did I say? Appalling

Choice of words! Would you when crawling

Up a Sandbank gritty,

On firm land a foothold winning,

Call it luck to meet a grinning

Cannibal Committee?

Well, to make a long narration

Shorter (by abbreviation),

Soon as he was sighted

Alcibiades J. Skinner

To a most select Shore Dinner

Was at once invited.

Never had the South Pacific

Witnessed such a beatific

Banquet as was here.

Never was such mirth unbounded

As when that far beach resounded

With unwonted cheer.

Epicures on South Sea beaches

Waste no time on Toasts and Speeches;

Happy dreams had they.

In their midst was A. J. Skinner,

Most nutritious After-Dinner

Speaker of his day.

Grim Giant Graft sate in his cavern dim;

A king’s reward was offered for him dead.

He scowled to think it could not come to him,

That price upon his head.

Of all his foes he dreaded only one,

A knight of stalwart heart and spotless fame,

Who feared no creature underneath the sun—

Sir Ippykin his name.

One night to Ippykin there came a thought—

A mocking thought, that whispered in his ear:

“Ah, ha, Sir Knight! men say thou fearest naught;

They lie—thou fearest Fear!

“Fear smites you when you read the king’s decree

That whatsoever knight shall rid the land

Of Giant Graft will gain a golden fee,

Likewise his daughter’s hand.

“You fear to win, for fear that you must wed

The princess—for you love another maid;

You dare not lose the fight because you dread

Lest men call you afraid.”

Cried Ippykin, “Lord, how shall I cut through

This tangled coil?” Then of a sudden laughed

A gleeful laugh, and rose and hied him to

The cave of Giant Graft.

No chronicler was present to reveal

What passed between the knight and Giant Graft;

Or what the bargain was the which to seal

So many horns they quaffed.

But this is sure—thereafter from the lands

Of Ippykin once every week would stray

Certain fat sheep into the Giant’s hands

In some mysterious way;

And once a week the giant and the knight

Would chase each other round in seeming strife,

Until the king grew weary of the sight,

And pensioned both for life.

Then Ippykin and his true love were wed

And both lived happy till they passed away;

But Giant Graft, fat, flagrant, and well fed,

Is living to this day.

One morn, as Robert Ristwatch Rice

Sped Childsward for his midday meal,

Upon his shoulder, like a vise,

He felt a grip of steel.

And in his ear a voice there hissed

(With spirits fraught, and crime),

And something snapped around his wrist

That did not tell the time.

“I’ve pinched yer now!” (devoid of tact

Was Sergeant Fay). “For shame!

Yer Hun! I caught yer in the act

Insultin’ that there dame!

“That skirt there in the showy lid,

And muff of classy fur.”

“My word!” cried Robert Rice, “I did

Not even speak to her.”

“What’s words to me, just froth and foam!

I’m a psycholic guy—

I lamp yer thoughts inside yer dome

With my subconscious eye!”

“Then you should know,” said Rice, “I’m a

Misogynist!”—“By Gee!

That settles you!” cried Sergeant Fay;

“You come along with me.”

Beside a Primrose ’broider’d Rill

Sat Phyllis Lee in Silken Dress

Whilst Lucius limn’d with loving skill

Her likeness, as a Shepherdess.

Yet tho’ he strove with loving skill

His Brush refused to work his Will.

“Dear Maid, unless you close your Eyes

I can not paint to-day,” he said;

“Their Brightness shames the very Skies

And turns their Turquoise into Lead.”

Quoth Phyllis, then, “To save the Skies

And speed your Brush, I’ll shut my Eyes.”

Now when her Eyes were closed, the Dear,

Not dreaming of such Treachery,

Felt a Soft Whisper in her Ear,

“Without the Light, how can one See?”

“If you are sure that none can see

I’ll keep them shut,” said Phyllis Lee.

The lauded lilies of the field

Who toil not—neither do they spin,

The palm sartorial must yield

To Mrs. Seymour Fentolin.

A hat, French heels, white stockings, dogs!

Not even Solomon could win

The championship for showy togs

From Mrs. Seymour Fentolin.

The two extremes in décolleté,

Of ballroom and of bathing beach,

Here meet in a bewildering way

And mingle all the charms of each.

I am no social butter-in,

I do not crave to meet her bunch,

But where does Mrs. Fentolin,

If one might venture—take her lunch?

And might one ask that peerless dame,

Without appearing impolite,

Is Seymour really her first name,

And has the printer spelt it right?

I

The Devil seeking some new way

To kill eternity, one day

(So bored he was, in Hades)

Flew to Manhattan Isle to start

A Summer School to teach the art

Of Smuggling to Ladies.

II

He opened in an uptown street

A Modiste’s shop refined and neat

(The number doesn’t matter),

Displaying in his window all

The Modes—Spring, Summer, Winter,
Fall

(Especially the latter).

III

The Ladies came in eager flocks,

And as he showed his Paris frocks,

With dext’rous verbal juggling,

He lightly led the talk from Modes

To Customs—and the law that goads

An honest girl to smuggling.

IV

“If Uncle Sam for Revenue,

Dear Ladies, picks your pockets, you

The compliment should bandy.

Pray let me teach you how to pick

The spangled pockets of that slick

Avuncular old Dandy.

“We can begin at once, if you

Will step this way.” The giddy crew

Flocked after him like chickens

To where an effigy there hung

Of Uncle Sam with bells be-strung

Like Fagin’s doll in Dickens.

VI

The Devil then with money fills

The dummy’s pockets—gold and bills

And silver pieces mingling.

“Now try your skill! all you can take

Is yours, my dears, if you don’t shake

The bells and set them jingling.”

VII

The news flew round, and soon the crush

Was like a bargain-counter rush

Of Frantic Ladies struggling;

And soon the Devil was about

A hundred thousand dollars out

And closed his School of Smuggling.

VIII

Exclaiming, “I’m behind the age!”

He kicked the dummy in his rage.

“What’s this—the bells don’t jingle!”

And sure enough the bells were dumb.

Deftly inserted chewing gum

Had stopped their tingle-tingle.

IX

“Ho! ho!” he laughed, “’tis plain to see

New York is too advanced for me.

I should have stayed in Hades;

For who the devil, pray, am I

In this enlightened age to try

My wit against the Ladies!”

A knock, a footstep on the floor.

“Come in!” he growls—“and shut that door!”

Two soft hands on his eyelids press;

A laughing voice: “Who am I?—guess!”

“’Tis Mistress Spring! Alas, my dear,

You find me sadly changed, I fear.”

“Cheer up!” cried Spring, “I bring for you

The Spell of Youth: Gold—Silver—Blue.”

Sun gold, sky turquoise, silver rain,

And Daddy Earth was young again!

He danced, he sang: “Hail Spring divine!

Ethereal Spring—h’m—wine?—pine—shine?”

Too late the rhyme popped in his head;

“Be mine!” he sang—but Spring had fled.

Lords of Fashion may disagree

On the question of questions, what to wear

At déjeuner, dinner, dance or tea,

“Feed informal” or “Smart affair.”

Let not the neophyte despair

Dreading disdain of the gilded throng

Hark to the dictum of Vanity Fair

“Plain Black Socks can never be wrong.”

Let scribes sartorial decree

Whether the “skirt” shall be full or spare,

Whether the crease be above the knee,

Whether the seam shall be here or there.

Of the openwork sock with the clock beware!

On Fancy’s rein let your curb be strong!

Hark to the dictum of Vanity Fair,

“Plain Black Socks can never be wrong.”

Doubting dolts may be all at sea

Tossed on tempestuous waves of care.

Are they wearing two studs?—or one?—or three?

Will a satin tie cause a well bred stare?

Leave dressy deeds to dudes that dare!

Heed not the scented siren’s song

Hark to the dictum of Vanity Fair,

“Plain Black Socks can never be wrong.”

L’envoi

Princes of Fashion, wherever ye fare—

London, Paris, New York, Hong Kong,

Hark to the dictum of Vanity Fair:

“Plain Black Socks can never be wrong.”

If when his frisky Pegasus he mounted,

He’d sung, instead of the eternal HER

The stylish HIM, he might have been accounted

A gentleman as well as litterateur.

If Shakespeare had abstained from malty liquors,

And spent the time (when not purloining plays)

In pressing Francis Bacon’s velvet knickers

He might thereby have gained a social raise.

If Tommy Moore when not devoutly pressing

His suit in amorous rhyme, had pressed instead

His patrons lordly “pants,” it is past guessing

What titles had been showered on his head.

Had Bobby Burns renounced his Highland lassies,

And tuned his pipes to “Gentlemen’s attire,”

He might in time have risen from the masses

And been addressed as Robert Burns, Esquire.

If Hall Caine—............................

.....................................................

.....................................................

..................but why drag in Hall Caine?

Come, Chaloner, confess like a good feller

By “Gentleman and litterateur” you meant

The literary style of the Best Seller

And the strictly pure refinement of the Gent.

One of those queer, artistic dives,

Where funny people had their fling.

Artists, and writers, and their wives—

Poets, and all that sort of thing.

Here, too, to view the vulgar herd

And sip the daring demi-tasse—

Be-cloaked, be-diamonded, be-furred—

Came women of the better class.

With its Parisian atmosphere,

It had a Latin Quarter ring.

Painters and journalists came here—

Actors, and all that sort of thing.

Here, too, to watch the Great Ungroomed

And sip the dangerous demi-tasse,

Be-furred, be-feathered and be-plumed,

Came women of the better class.

Here Howells dined—Saint Gaudens, Nast,

Kipling, Mark Twain and Peter Dunne,

Nell Terry, and not least though last

One Robert Louis Stevenson.

And mingling with that underworld,

To sip the devilish demi-tasse,

Be-cloaked, be-diamonded, be-pearled,

Came women of the better class.

Like geese to see the lions fed,

They came—be-jewelled and be-laced,

Only to find the lions fled.

“My Word!” cried they, “What wretched taste!”

Ermined and minked and Persian-lambed,

Be-puffed (be-painted, too, alas!)

Be-decked, be-diamonded—be-damned!

The women of the better class.

At school he won a smokership,

At Harvard College (Cambridge, Mass.)

His name was soon on every lip,

They made him “smoker” of his class.

Who will forget his smoking bout

With Mount Vesuvius—our cheers—

When Mount Vesuvius went out

And didn’t smoke again for years?

The news was flashed to England’s King,

Who begged Mark Twain to come and stay,

Offered him dukedoms—anything

To smoke the London fog away.

But Mark was firm. “I bow,” said he,

“To no imperial command,

No ducal coronet for me,

My smoke is for my native land!”

I come from heaven knows where—or when.

My pedigree is shady.

My father was a Fountain Pen;

My mother, a Typelady,

Who smote the keys from morn till night

With fingers swift and taper,

Till I appeared, all clean and bright,

On reams of foolscap paper.

And now in serial form I flow,

And flout at style and diction,

As like a babbling brook I go

To join the Sea of Fiction.

Some streams, I know, more deeply flow,

And some for speed endeavor.

Short stories come, short stories go,

But I’ll go on forever.

I glitter like a foolish string

Of pearls, with polish painful,

With epigrams of doubtful ring

And platitudes Hall-Caineful.

And many a mood and tense amiss,

And metaphor amuddle,

And here and there a clinging kiss,

And here and there a cuddle—

And here and there a phrase in French,

To give a touch linguisty;

And here and there a Fisher wench,

And here and there a Christy.

And here and there and everywhere

My thin stream slowly trickles

’Twixt Bunk’s Elixir for the Hair

And Black and Croswell’s Pickles.

And here a temperamental scene,

Fervid, intense, Byronic—

Tosses tempestuous between

Ayre’s Soap and Tinkham’s Tonic.

A sprightly conversation’s flow

Is checked by Soak and Stingham’s

Pink Pills, to reappear below

An ad for ladies’ thingums.

The well-known slip ’twixt cup and lip

Here, too, finds confirmation—

“He raised his glass”—Thy Anti-Grip!

Beware of Imitations!

—“Up to his lips; when on his wrist

He felt a grip, steel-sinewed;

The glass fell, and a hoarse voice hissed

The words”—To be Continued.