A line-o'-verse or two Part 9

Will we merely drill a hole Through the trailing aureole?

Or will the prediction dire Of a world destroyed by fire Be fulfilled?

Shall we crook our knees and pray Counting this the Judgment Day?

Or preserve a cosmic ca'm, Caring not a cosmic dam What may come?

There's the rub. If we but knew We should know just what to do.

Yes is just as good as No To all questions. Here we go!-- Hang on tight!

THE MORNING AFTER

(_May 19, 1910._)

Here we are, friends, whole and hale In or through the comet's tail; And as far as we can say, Matters are about as they Were before.

Everything is much the same As before the comet came.

Gra.s.ses grow and waters run-- Nothing new beneath the sun-- Same old sphere.

Life is drab or life is gay, Th.o.r.n.y path or primrose way; All is common, all is strange; "Down the ringing grooves of change"

Spins the world.

Change but of a humdrum kind.

What we vaguely had in mind Was some new sensation or Thrill we never felt before.

Vain desire!

Nothing's added to the stock: Same old shiver, same old shock.

Round about the sun we'll go In the same old status quo.

Awful bore!

A BALLADE OF IRRESOLUTION

Isolde, in the story old, When Ireland's coast the vessel nears, And Death were fairer to behold, To Tristan gives "the cup that clears."

Straight to their fate the helmsman steers: Unknowing, each the potion sips....

Comes echoing through the ghostly years "Give me the philtre of thy lips!"

Ah, that like Tristan I were bold!

My soul into the future peers, And pa.s.sion flags, and heart grows cold, And sicklied resolution veers.

I see the Sister of the Shears Who sits fore'er and snips, and snips....

Still falls upon my inward ears, "Give me the philtre of thy lips!"

Hero of lovers, largely soul'd!

Imagination thee enspheres With song-enchanted wood and wold And cas.e.m.e.nts fronting magic meres.

Tristan, thy large example cheers The faint of heart; thy story grips!-- My soul again that echo hears, "Give me the philtre of thy lips!"

_L'Envoi_

Sweet sorceress, resolve my fears!

He stakes all who Elysium clips.

What tho' the fruit be tares and tears!-- Give me the philtre of thy lips!

TO WHAT BASE USES!

"_Mrs. O---- now takes her daily dip at 5 in the afternoon, instead of in the morning._"

--NEWPORT ITEM.

This is the forest primeval.

This the spruce with the glorious plume That grew in the forest primeval.

This is the lumberman big and browned Who felled the spruce tree to the ground That grew in the forest primeval.

This is the man with the paper mill Who bought the pulp that paid the bill Of the husky lumberjack who chopped The lofty spruce and its branches lopped That grew in the forest primeval.

This is the publisher bland and rich Who bought the roll of paper which Was made by the man with the paper mill Who bought the pulp that paid the bill Of the lumberjack with the murderous ax Who felled the spruce with l.u.s.ty hacks That grew in the forest primeval.

This is the youth with the writing tool Who does the daily Newport drool That helps to make the publisher rich Who ordered the stock of paper which Was made by the man with the paper mill Who bought the pulp that paid the bill Of the husky Swede in the Joseph's coat Who swung his ax and the tall spruce smote That grew in the forest primeval.

This is the lady far from slim Who changed the hour of her daily swim And excited the youth with the writing tool Who does the Newport drivel and drool For the prosperous publisher bland and fat Who ordered the virgin paper that Was made by the man with the paper mill Who bought the pulp that paid the bill Of Ole Oleson the husky Swede Who did a foul and darksome deed When he swung his ax with vigor and vim And smote the spruce tree tall and trim That grew in the forest primeval.

This is the shop girl Mag or Liz Who daily devours what news there is Concerning the lady far from slim Who changed the time of her ocean swim And excited the youth with the writing tool Who does the daily Newport drool For the pursy publisher bland and rich Who bought the innocent paper which Was made by the man with the paper mill Who bought the pulp that paid the bill Of the Swedish jack who slew the spruce That came to a most ign.o.ble use-- The lofty spruce with the glorious plume-- The giant spruce that used to loom In the heart of the forest primeval.

HOW THEY MIGHT HAVE BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS

We sprang to the motor, I, Joris and Dirck.

I snapped on my goggles and got to my work.

"Hi, there!" yelled the cop in the helmet of white; "Let her flicker!" said Joris, and into the night, With a sneer at the speed laws, we hurtled h.e.l.l-bent To carry to Aix the good tidings from Ghent.

The going was poor, we expected delay, And the usual livestock obstructed the way.

At Boom we ran over a large yellow dog, At Duffeld a chicken, at Mecheln a hog; What else, we'd no time to slow down to inquire; At Aerschot, confound it! we blew out a tire.

I jacked up the axle and ripped off the shoe, And snapped on an extra that promised to do.

"All aboard!" I exclaimed as I cranked the machine, But something was wrong with the curst gasoline.

"By Ha.s.selt!" Dirck groaned, "We'll be half a day late; We ought to have sent the good tidings by freight."