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  THE FAIRY

  GODMOTHER-IN-LAW




    +-------------------------------------------------------+
    |  BOOKS BY OLIVER HERFORD                              |
    |                                                       |
    |  _WITH PICTURES BY THE AUTHOR_                        |
    |                                                       |
    |  PUBLISHED BY CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS                 |
    |                                                       |
    |-------------------------------------------------------|
    |                                                       |
    |    THE BASHFUL EARTHQUAKE                       $1.25 |
    |                                                       |
    |    A CHILD’S PRIMER OF NATURAL HISTORY          $1.25 |
    |                                                       |
    |    OVERHEARD IN A GARDEN                        $1.25 |
    |                                                       |
    |    MORE ANIMALS                          _net_, $1.00 |
    |                                                       |
    |    THE RUBAIYAT OF A PERSIAN KITTEN      _net_, $1.00 |
    |                                                       |
    |    THE FAIRY GODMOTHER-IN-LAW            _net_, $1.00 |
    +-------------------------------------------------------+




[Illustration]




  The Fairy
  Godmother-in-Law

  _By_
  Oliver Herford

  [Illustration]

  _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


                                         PAGE

  THE FAIRY GODMOTHER-IN-LAW                1

  THE CHARM THAT FAILED                    31

  THE SILVER QUESTION                      41

  HOW THE LION BECAME KING                 47

  THE WAKEFUL PRINCESS                     55

  A MODERN DIALOGUE                        65

  THE HEART OF ICE                         71

  THE JUDGMENT OF BISHOP VALENTINE         75

  THE BACHELOR GIRL                        78

  MEPHISTO                                 80

  A CORNER IN CURLS                        83

  THE HYDRANT-HEADED MONSTER               93

  TO MY TOY CANARY                         95

  THE HAND OF TIME                        101

  ENVOI                                   103




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.

[Illustration]

      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?

[Illustration]


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----

      [Illustration: NO-MANS LAND]

      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.

[Illustration]

      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_.

[Illustration]

      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.

[Illustration]

      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.

[Illustration]

      Perchance, Dear Reader, you have noted
        In that Department which to Trade is
      By Monthly Magazines devoted,
        The Pleasant Gentlemen and Ladies
      Whose Union Suits our souls bewitch--
      The Simple Flannels of the Rich.

[Illustration]

      Even arrayed as one of these,
        In Homespun stood the Royal Twain,
      While people cried, on bended knees,
        “Long live their Majesties! who deign
      Thus by example to Restore
      Our Woolen Industry of Yore!”

      Thro’ all the Land the Tidings sped
        From Door to Door, from Wife to Wife,
      Thro’ all the Land the Fashion spread
        For Woolen and the Simple Life.
      New looms sprang up on every hand
      And shepherds prospered in the land.

      Poor God-mamma, ’twas her last caper;
        One night to throw some Light about
      She changed herself into a Taper,
        And Cinderella blew her out.
      The Princess then divorced the Prince,
      And Both lived Happy Ever Since.

[Illustration]




THE CHARM THAT FAILED

[Illustration]

      The Hero of my tale
          Was a serpent--don’t turn pale!
      My snake was not the “serpent” of Theology
          With an apple up his sleeve
          To tempt some child of Eve,
      Nor was he versed in deadly Toxicology.
          No, his fangs were free from guile,
          And he had a roomy smile.
      There was no more harmless snake in all Zoology.
          But since no creature known
          Is perfect, I will own
      He had one failing--vanity, alas! innate.
          He was also fond of sport,
          Though not a cruel sort:
      His aim was more to charm than to assassinate.
          He was often heard to say,
          When feeling rather gay,
      “I’d like to see the Bird I cannot fascinate!”

              _And one day
              Some laughter-loving Fay
              His boasting heard,
              And sent a Bird._

[Illustration]

          It was sitting, stuffed and stiff on
          A thing of straw and chiffon,
      Ribbands and lace and jet and such like finery,
          By a milliner begotten
          And some careless maid forgotten,
      In stuffed and lonely splendor in the Vinery,
          When with expectant eye
          Mr. Serpent, by and by,
      Strolled forth in search of game from out the Pinery.

              _And the Bird
              Never stirred
              Or said a word._

          “Aha!” said Mr. Snake,
          “Unless I much mistake,
      Here’s a charming subject for a Trance Hypnotic;
          Soon I’ll have her in my toils!”
          And with mysterious coils
      He advanced with air complacent and despotic.
          Then he rose up, and let fly
          A glance from out his eye,
      And watched for the effect of his narcotic.

              _And the Bird
              Never stirred
              Or said a word._

          Said Mr. Snake, “My spell
          Seems to work extremely well.”
      And straightway with Majestic Pride he puffed,
          But when an hour had pass’d,
          And still the Bird stood fast,
      I must confess he felt a trifle huff’d.
          “There’s something wrong,” said he,
          “With the Bird--or else with me.”
      How should he know the wretched thing was stuffed?

              _That Bird,
              Who never stirred
              Or said a word._

          Mr. Snake was sorely troubled,
          And his efforts he redoubled,
      And he balanced on the tip end of his tail,
          Swaying to and fro the while
          Like a pendulum--a style
      That hitherto he’d never known to fail.
          But not a word she uttered,
          And not a feather fluttered
      As he plied his mystic Art without avail.

[Illustration]

          “Confound the bird!” he said,
          And he stood upon his head
      And waved his long mysterious tail in air,
          And he focussed all the rays
          Of his esoteric gaze
      Into one cold and petrifying glare.
          But the Deadly Glance fell wide;
          He might as well have tried
      To hypnotize a table or a chair--

              _As that Bird,
              Who never stirred
              Or said a word._

          “That settles it!” he cried.
          “I will not be defied!”
      And he coiled himself to spring--oh, rash proceeding!
          Like an arrow from a bow
          He sprang--how should he know
      The Doom to which he was so swiftly speeding?
          Next moment he lay dead,
          With a Hat Pin through his head,
      Whereat, with most commendable good-breeding--

              _The Bird
              Never stirred
              Or said a word._

[Illustration]




[Illustration]

THE SILVER QUESTION

      The Sun appeared so smug and bright,
          One day, that I made bold
      To ask him what he did each night
          With all his surplus gold.

      He flushed uncomfortably red,
          And would not meet my eye.
      “I travel round the world,” he said,
          “And travelling rates are high.”

[Illustration]

      With frigid glance I pierced him through.
          He squirmed and changed his tune.
      Said he: “I will be frank with you:
          I lend it to the Moon.

      “Poor thing! You know she’s growing old
          And hasn’t any folk.
      She suffers terribly from cold,
          And half the time she’s broke.”

             *       *       *       *       *

      That evening on the beach I lay
          Behind a lonely dune,
      And as she rose above the bay
          I buttonholed the Moon.

      “Tell me about that gold,” said I.
          I saw her features fall.
      “You see, it’s useless to deny;
          The Sun has told me all.”

      “Sir!” she exclaimed, “how _can_ you try
          An honest Moon this way?
      As for the gold, I put it by
          Against a rainy day.”

[Illustration]

      I smiled and shook my head. “All right,
          If you _must_ know,” said she,
      “I change it into silver bright
          Wherewith to tip the Sea.

      “He is so faithful and so good,
          A most deserving case;
      If he should leave, I fear it would
          Be hard to fill his place.”

             *       *       *       *       *

      When asked if they accepted tips,
          The waves became so rough;
      I thought of those at sea in ships,
          And felt I’d said enough.

      For if one virtue I have learned,
          ’Tis _tact_; so I forbore
      To press the matter, though I burned
          To ask one question more.

      I hate a scene, and do not wish
          To be mixed up in gales,
      But, oh, I longed to ask the Fish
          Whence came their silver scales!

[Illustration]




HOW THE LION BECAME KING

      Once in the hazy days of Yore
      (I cannot very well be more
      Explicit, since it was before
          Dates were invented).
      Once on a time, as I began
      To say, the Lion formed a plan
      To undermine the rule of Man,
          Which he resented.

      In answer to the Lion’s call,
      His fellow-creatures, great and small,
      From earth and air came one and all
          In Trepidation.
      He then delivered a discourse,
      And proved with eloquence and force
      Man was their one and only source
          Of Tribulation.

      “What is he--taken at his best?
      A mere pretence! Not even dressed,
      If we his puny form divest
          Of spoil he’s looted.
      The fact that we can far excel
      His boasted Strength and Speed, as well
      As Hearing, Sight, and Taste and Smell,
          Is undisputed.

      “I am not boasting when I own
      for Strength I’d back my claws alone
      Against his battle-axe of stone;
          While, as to Vision,
      ’Tis nothing more than idle talk
      To mention Man beside the Hawk--
      The swift Horse, too, his clumsy walk
          Views with derision.

      “Only Man’s Ignorance, I’m bound
      To say, could possibly confound
      The Scent and Hearing of the Hound
          With his dull powers;
      As well his Taste, that gluts on fare
      Like half-burnt Antelope and Bear,
      With the fastidious Bee compare,
          That sips the flowers.

[Illustration]

      “And yet,” the Lion said, “though we
      Outshine Man to the last degree
      Collectively, none holds as he
          The Combination.”
      In short, the moral of his theme
      Was this: If Beasts would reign supreme
      Their only practicable scheme
          Was Federation.

[Illustration]

      And so, in view of Public Need,
      The Hawk, Hound, Bee, and Horse agreed
      To pool their Sight, Scent, Taste, and Speed;
          And in due season
      They made, _pro tem._, the Lion King,
      Intrusting him with everything
      Upon condition he would bring
          Proud Man to reason.

      The crafty Lion then proposed
      To send an Embassy composed
      Of those same four. As none opposed,
          They started straightway,
      And, coming to Man’s portals wide,
      They entered, but no trace espied
      Of Man, until (from the outside)
          He closed the gateway.

      And there he kept them till they swore
      To be his servants evermore,
      And work his will, and bow before
          His rod of iron:
      The Dog to watch, the Hawk to kill,
      The Horse to carry and to till,
      The Bee with sweets his jars to fill.
          All save the Lion--

      The Lion stayed at home--and purred,
      And kept thenceforth the crown conferred
      _Pro tem._, and nothing more was heard
          About Conditions.
      So ends my tale. Perchance it brings
      Some light to bear on certain things--
      Such as the Origin of Kings,
          And Politicians.

[Illustration]




THE WAKEFUL PRINCESS

      One time there lived (that is to say,
      If half a crust of bread a day
      And sleeping on a bed of hay
          May so be rated)
      A Gentle Youth who tuned his lay
      To all the Metres of the day,
      But was not, I regret to say,
          Appreciated.

[Illustration]

      In Market-place or Public Way
      He read his ode or sang his lay,
      As was the custom of the day,
          But none suggested
      A Laurel Wreath or Crown of Bay:
      Instead, one morn, to his dismay,
      While spouting forth a Tragic Play,
          He was arrested.

      In Irons he was led away,
      And, by a Justice stern and gray,
      For blocking up the Public Way
          He was indicted.
      Then, since he had nowith to pay
      The Fine (a trifle anyway),
      To leave the town without delay
          He was invited.

      There was no choice but to obey--
      He left the town at break of day,
      Yet still his heart was brave and gay;
          Fate could not queer him.
      For was it not the month of May,
      Were there not flowers beside the way,
      And little lambs to sport and play,
          And birds to cheer him?

[Illustration]

      He journeyed on for many a day;
      The Peasants gave him Curds and Whey;
      For aught I know the Fairies may
          Some Food have found him.
      At night he slept beneath a Bay
      Or Laurel Tree, and, I dare say,
      Dreamed he was Laureate, and they
          Were twined around him.

      Indeed, his only trouble lay
      In this, that tho’ his spirits gay
      And gentle Heart and winning way
          Charmed and delighted
      All whom he met, yet, strange to say,
      To hear his verses none would stay--
      Even the Peasants ran away
          When he recited.

[Illustration]

      But he was not the sort that say,
      “Oh, woe is mine--alack-a-day!”
      He lived for Hope, and in some way
          Was bound to find it.
      “What matter! Let them go,” he’d say;
      “Each to his taste--henceforth I’ll play
      And sing to Birds alone, for they
          Don’t seem to mind it.”

      And so he journeyed many a day,
      Till now at last his darkening way
      Lies thro’ a forest dim and gray;
          Yet, nothing daunted,
      Though hoary branches bar the way,
      And twisted roots his steps betray,
      And ghostly voices seem to say
          The place is haunted.

      Singing a Carol blithe and gay,
      He presses on, nor does he stay,
      Until at last the light of day
          His sight surprises.
      And now a little winding way
      Leads, through a meadow pink with May,
      To where, not half a mile away,
          A Palace rises.

      He wandered on, his thoughts astray,
      Framing a little Roundelay
      And weaving garlands of the May
          (For whom not guessing),
      Until before him suddenly
      There loomed a gateway grim and gray,
      Whose dark doors yielded to the sway
          Of his light pressing.

[Illustration]

      And lo! a garden gleaming, gay
      With flowers in dazzling array,
      And fountains flashing silver spray,
          And bowers shady;
      And on an emerald bank there lay
      A creature fairer than the day,
      Yet sadder than a moonlight ray--
          A wondrous lady.

      Abashed the Poet turned away,
      When a low voice entreated, “Stay!
      Read me that little Roundelay
          I heard you singing.”
      It was as though upon him lay
      A spell that forced him to obey,
      And he recited it straightway
          In voice clear ringing.

      A dreamy, languid, far-away
      Expression dims her eyes as they,
      Like violets at droop of day,
          Are closing--closing.
      The Poet ends his Roundelay,
      And turns to hear what she may say,
      And finds to his complete dismay
          The Princess dozing.

      Then rose a cry: “She sleeps! Hurray!
      The Princess sleeps! Oh, joyful day!
      The spell is broken--Rise, I pray,
          Oh, sweet song-maker.”
      ’Twas the King spoke, “Arise, I pray:
      I make you Laureate this day;
      My daughter’s hand, too, by the way,
          Is yours--don’t wake her.”

[Illustration]




A MODERN DIALOGUE


Scene--_On Manhattan Island_. _Time--To-day. Hour--Ten-thirty.
Persons of the play_:

      SIBYL. _A dream of beauty, half-awake,
      In filmy disarray--about to take
      Her morning tub. In speech with her the while
      Is_ ROBERT. _He is dressed in riding style._

      SIBYL--Why, Bob, it’s _you_! They got your name all wrong.
            I’m sorry that I made you wait so long.

      BOB--Only six minutes by my watch--it’s true
            A minute seems a year, awaiting you!
            But Time is merciful and I rejoice
            That I am still alive to hear your voice.

      SIBYL--A very pretty speech, for you, indeed.
            But what extenuation can you plead
            For waking ladies at the break of day
            From peaceful slumbers, sir!

      BOB--      Oh, come, I say!
            It’s half past ten!

      SIBYL--    Well, it was nearly three
            Before I got to bed!

      BOB--      Good gracious me!
            I’m sure I’d no idea it was so late.
            Why, I was riding in the Park at eight
            And looked for you. I own I felt abused;
            Last night you said----

      SIBYL--    I beg to be excused
            From keeping foolish promises, when made
            At two A.M., by moonlight. I’m afraid
            My memory’s no better than a sieve.
            So you expected me? The Lord forgive
            Your trusting soul!

      BOB--    It is His _métier_!

      SIBYL--Don’t be outrageous, or I’ll run away.

      BOB--Ah, no; don’t go. I will be good, I swear!
            ’Twas a quotation, Heine, or Voltaire,
            Or some fool cynic fellow. By the way,
            If you have nothing on, what do you say
            To breakfasting with Peg and me at noon
            At the Casino?

      SIBYL--    Well, that’s rather soon;
            I can’t be ready for an hour or more.

      BOB--Come as you are, you know that I adore
            Your ladyship in any sort of gown;
            Besides, there’s not another soul in town.
            Come as you are; there’ll only be we three.

      SIBYL--Well, I like that! It’s fortunate for me
            This is a telephone and not that new
            Invention one can talk and _see_ through, too!
            What’s that you said?

      BOB--      I didn’t speak at all
            I only _thought_.

      SIBYL--    Well, _don’t_! Suppose we call
            The breakfast half past one instead of noon?

      BOB (_joyously_)--
            Then you will come?

      SIBYL--    I swear!

      BOB--      Not by the moon?

      SIBYL (_laughing_)--
            No, you may count on me. Now I must fly.
            One-thirty--don’t forget--Good-by!

      BOB--      Good-by!

                          (_They ring off._)




THE HEART OF ICE

      Now whither are you flying
        And on what game intent,
      Cupid? There’s no denying
        On mischief you are bent.
      What is the use of trying
        To look so innocent?

      What means your empty quiver?
        Did heart of some coquette
      Your golden arrows shiver?
        Or did you, boy, upset
      Your darts in Lethe’s river,
        Or break them in a pet?

      What is it you’re concealing,
        My patience to annoy?
      A heart you have been stealing,
        Or some such foolish toy?
      Come, now--no double-dealing!
        Out with it--Cupid, boy!

      “I have,” quoth Cupid, shyly,
        “A thing wherewith to hew
      Cold hearts” (he hinted slyly
        That such a heart I knew).
      “’Tis recommended highly--
        An ice-pick--what say you?”

      Gravely I shake my finger
        At Cupid--“’Tis indeed
      The very thing to bring her
        To reason, boy, so speed!
      Fly, Cupid! Do not linger--
        Jove grant you may succeed!”




[Illustration: THE JUDGEMENT OF ST. VALENTINE]


[Illustration]

THE JUDGMENT OF BISHOP VALENTINE

      One tyme a Youthe of faire degree
      Didde looke upon a Mayde. Ah me,
      She was as coye as anye flow’r,
      She stole hys harte in thatte sayme how’r.
      Alle vainlie he to Love didde calle,
      Ye blinde Godde holp hym notte atte alle.
      To Bishop Valentine thenne hies
      Ye Youthe, ye Damosel likewyse,
      Ande each ’gan tell hys tayle of griefe.
      Each sayd ye other was ye thiefe.
      “Zounds!” cried ye Sainte, “this brawle must cease.
      I’ll binde ye bothe to keepe ye peace.”
      Whereat ye twain in nowyse loath,
      “Pray then wyth one bond binde us bothe.”
      Loude laughed ye Sainte, “Perdi! ’Tis done!”
      And made ye Youthe and Mayden one.

             *       *       *       *       *
      Lady, anent this suit of mine
        In search of precedents, I waded
      Through ancient lore, and found this fine
        Old Judgment, in a parchment faded.
      If you will ponder the last line
        And be by wise example aided,
      We, too, will make Saint Valentine
        Our Judge, and--compromise, as they did.




THE BACHELOR GIRL

      Here’s to the Bachelor Girl
        Who fain her charms would cloister.
      She is a precious pearl
        That will not leave the oyster.
      She is a proud sweet-pea
        That scorns to be a vine,
      And lean upon a tree
        Or round a stick entwine.
      “What! lean upon a stick!
        Oh, no! I’m not that sort--
      I will grow branches thick
        And be my own support!”
      Beware, O pearl of price,
        Lest you be cast to swine;
      O proud sweet-pea, think twice
        Ere you refuse to twine!
      O Bachelor Girl, we drink
        Confusion to your plan;
      Beware, lest Fate shall link
        You to a Spinster Man!
      O change, ere ’tis too late,
        The choker tall and silly,
      The tweeds--the hat we hate,
        For something soft and frilly!
      Take off the stockings blue,
        (We will avert our gaze),
      Then will we drink to you
        Long life--and happy days!




[Illustration: MEPHISTO]

      We’ve drunk to everything we know,
        From Lang Syne to The Ladies;
      Now, one more Toast before we go--
        Mephisto, Prince of Hades!
      When sober we are wont, ’tis true,
        To bury, not to praise him;
      But let us give the De’il his due,
        And toast him while we raise him.
      For tho’ his company we’re taught
        To shun, there’s no denying
      Mephisto never yet was caught
        Beneath false colors flying.
      He wears his coat and plume of red
        With candor so unswerving
      We must applaud, although ’tis said
        He took some points from Irving.
      Think of the Stage, think of the Church,
        Without their villain ruddy,
      If Old Nick left them in the lurch
        Without an understudy!
      As well “Othello” played without
        The Gentleman of Color,
      Or “Hamlet” with the Prince left out:
        Could anything be duller?
      A world from all temptation free
        Would sadly lack in flavor;
      And what would Untried Virtue be
        But Salt without its savor?
      To pawn his soul the sinner goes
        More than half-way to meet him,
      Yet when Mephisto would foreclose
        He does his best to cheat him.
      In Church to-day we sound his Knell,
        To-morrow at a revel
      We fall to raising him--and--well,
        We treat him like the Devil.
      So let us toast our Foe of Foes,
        Long may we live to rout him.
      Here’s to Mephisto! Goodness knows
        What would we do without him.
      And, good Mephisto, do not spurn
        Our Toast with mocking laughter,
      Nor yet the compliment return--
        By Toasting _us_ hereafter!




A CORNER IN CURLS

      Once on a time when Men were Bold
        And Women Fair--to be precise--
      A Princess lived whose Hair was Gold
        Beyond the Dreams of Avarice;

[Illustration]

      Beauty she had and Wealth untold,
        Besides a Fabulous Amount
      Of Jewels rare and Crowns of Gold,
        And Suitors more than she could count.

      Such Suitors! Tho’ her Fingers Fair
        Had been as leaves upon the Trees
      They still were far too few to wear
        The Rings they offered, on their Knees.

      In Coaches, Caravans, and Ships
        The Suitors came in Flocks untold,
      Happy to kiss her Finger-tips
        And beg from her a Lock of Gold.

      For tho’ she seemed to Cupid’s Dart
        Impervious, and would not share
      The smallest atom of her Heart,
        She was most lavish with her Hair.

[Illustration]

      To all who craved the Golden Boon
        She gave, until one Night her Maid
      Exclaimed, “Alas! Your Highness soon
        Will not have Hair enough to braid!”

      Next day the Court was in a state,
        The usual audience was refused,
      A Notice hung upon the Gate--
        “_The Princess begs to be Excused._”

      Daily the Throng of Suitors grew
        And clamored madly at the door,
      Until at length they formed a queue
        Extending for a mile or more.

      The Chancellor was in despair.
        “Princess, it comes to this,” he said,
      “That either you must lose your hair
        Or I must surely lose my head!”

      The Princess turned away her face.
        “Oh, dear,” she cried, “this grieves me sore;
      It will be hard to fill your place--
        You were a first-rate Chancellor!

      “But do not grieve--I have a plan
        To keep your head and save my Pride.”
      Then to the marble gate she ran,
        Unloosed her hair, stepped forth, and cried:

      “Brave Suitors, look upon this Gold,
        This mint of Curls--lo, I present
      A share to each of you--behold
        My Notes of Curl--at five per cent!”

      A cheer rose from a Thousand Throats;
        The panic passed--and months flew by.
      The Princess issued Tons of Notes,
        When lo!--a Bolt from out the Sky--

[Illustration]

      A message came, brought by a Churl:
        “_Pont Morgan, Sultan of Peru,
      Has bought up all your Notes of Curl,
        And all your Notes are falling Due!_”

      The Princess grew distraught with fears
        By Day. At night she tossed in Bed,
      Dreaming an Awful Pair of Shears
        Hung by a Hair above her Head.

[Illustration]

      At last the Fatal Morning came,
        And with it came Pont Morgan, too,
      With Awful Shears to press his claim,
        And an Enormous Retinue.

      “The Law is Just!” the People cried;
        “And She the Penalty must pay!”
      The Shears their Awful Jaws spread wide,
        When suddenly a Voice cried, “Stay!”

[Illustration]

      An Unknown Damsel, Pale and Proud,
        And clad in Silken Cap and Gown,
      Strode swiftly through the gaping crowd,
        And struck the Awful Scissors down.

      “Beware!” she cried, “Proud Sultan, ere
        You touch a Hair of that Fair Head;
      For know you not that Every Hair
        Is numbered--as the Prophet said?

      “Show me the Notes--see, here is writ
        A number plain across each Bond,
      And you may only draw for it
        The numbered Hair to correspond.

      “So pause, Pont Morgan, ere you draw
        A Single Hair from that Gold Head;
      If it be wrong--then by the Law
        Your Life and Lands are forfeited!”

[Illustration]

      “Hurray! Hurray! The Maid is Right!”
        The People cried with mad uproar.
      The Sultan turned a deadly white,
        And fell in Fits upon the Floor.

      “O Lady, whosoe’er you be,
        Claim what you will in all my Land!”
      The Princess cried. “I am,” said he,
        “Not Maid, but Man--I claim your Hand.”

      “’Tis yours! Right gladly will I be
        Your Bride--for in Creation’s Plan
      I never dreamed to find,” said she,
        “A Portia’s Logic in a Man!”




[Illustration]


THE HYDRANT-HEADED MONSTER

Being an epistle to Paul. From Temperance

      It comes! The monster rearing high,
      Against the lurid western sky,
      Its horrid, hissing Hydrant Heads,
      While o’er the shuddering land it sheds
      A dreary pall of waste and woe
      And chilling streams of H_{2}O.
      Now saints defend us, one and all,
      And most especially Saint Paul,
      Thou patron saint of Honest Fighting
      And Common Sense and Letterwriting,
      Who one time, for his “stomach’s sake,”
      Bade Timothy the wine cup take;
      Stay now this Water Fiend’s advance
      And save thy servant Temperance,
      Ere Abstinence, that glum wet-nurse
      Of Dire Dyspepsia, Chills, and worse,
      Blow out the Lights of Love and Mirth,
      And so asphyxiate the Earth.




TO MY TOY CANARY


[Illustration]

          Wee saffron sage,
      Make-believe bird, fluffy, absurd,
          In mimic cage
      Through beady eyes you scrutinize
          A Noisy Age.

          You boast no “Tree,”
      No painted shell your Natal Cell,
          Your Pedigree,
      Neatly displayed, reads simply, “Made
          In Germany.”

          What do I care
      Tho’ to fresh seed you pay no heed--
          Since on Plain Air
      You gayly feast? Of that at least
          I have to spare.

          You do not pour
      From your wide bill a gladsome trill,
          Thanks be, therefore!
      The best of tune, repeated, soon
          Becomes a bore!

          You simply stare
      When I exclaim “Wilhelm” (your name);
          You do not care
      For William Hohenzollern, tho’
          His name you bear.

          What would you say
      If William the Unsilent, he
          Should come your way?
      And fume, and pout, and storm--and shout,
          “Lèse-Majesté!”

          ’Twould vex his pride
      To see you hold that Gift of Gold
          To him denied--
      “Silence,” the sole and only rôle
          He has not tried.

          Fear not his grim,
      Imperial ire; no torture dire,
          No dungeon dim,
      Your fate shall be: This land is free--
          At least from him.

[Illustration]

          Wee saffron sage,
      Pipe all day long your silent song
          While by your cage,
      Musing, I let my soul forget
          The Noisy Age.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]




THE HAND OF TIME

[Illustration]

      She dreams beneath lamplight pale,
      Like Beauty in the fairy-tale
            Of Messrs. Grimm.
      And as I gaze, behold, a Thing,
      A shape, a face white, menacing,
      Hangs o’er her ’mid a ghostly ring
            Of figures dim.

      Now o’er the figures dark I see
      A hand which moves relentlessly,
            Remorseless, black.
      The hand of Time--and through me flit
      The Solemn words by Omar writ,
      “Not all your piety nor wit
            Can lure it back.”

      She sighs, she stirs, her lids unclose
      Like petals of a pearly rose
            After the rain.
      And as she notes, with startled eye,
      The Station Clock, I hear her cry,
      “It’s twenty minutes past--oh, my!
            I’ve missed my train.”




[Illustration]


_ENVOI_

      “_Oh, Winter, must you leave so soon?”
        Said Spring as Winter turned to go.
      “If only you could stay till June,
        And help to make my garden grow._”

      _So back again that night he goes
        To see the flowers, how they grow.
      Poor things, they looked so cold, he throws
        O’er them a coverlet--of snow._

      _Next morning Spring was full of woe
        To find her flowers frozen--dead.
      “The Fool I never thought he’d go
        And take me at my word,” she said._




  TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE

  Obvious typographical errors and punctuation errors have been
  corrected after careful comparison with other occurrences within
  the text and consultation of external sources.

  Except for those changes noted below, all misspellings in the text,
  and inconsistent or archaic usage, have been retained.

  Pg 9: ‘too and fro’ replaced by ‘to and fro’.
  Pg 24: ‘for Ade halloo’ has not been changed, but probably meant
          to be ‘for Aide halloo’.
  Pg 94: ‘H^2O’ (with superscript) replaced by ‘H_{2}O’ (subscript).





End of Project Gutenberg's The Fairy Godmother-in-law, by Oliver Herford