A Nonsense Anthology Part 39

Forth from the neck the stopper burst And rudely waked the sleeping dead.

In terror guilty Thothmes fled As rose majestic, wroth and slow, The Pharaoh's Ka of long ago.

"Help! help!" he cried, "or I am lost!

Oh! save me from old Pharaoh's ghost!"

Till, uttering one fearful yell, He stumbled at the base and fell Where Anubis was at his side, And, by the G.o.d of death, he died.

The wife of Thothmes learned his tale First from the "Memphis Evening Mail,"

And called her son, and told their woe; "Alas!" said she, "I told him so!

Oh, think upon these awful things And mount not on the graves of kings!

A pyramid is strange to see, Though only at its base you be."

_Anonymous_.

THE STORY OF CRUEL PSAMTEK

Here is cruel Psamtek, see.

Such a wicked boy was he!

Chased the ibis round about, Plucked its longest feathers out, Stamped upon the sacred scarab Like an unbelieving Arab, Put the dog and cat to pain, Making them to howl again.

Only think what he would do-- Tease the awful Apis too!

Basking by the sacred Nile Lay the trusting crocodile; Cruel Psamtek crept around him, Laughed to think how he had found him, With his pincers seized his tail, Made the holy one to wail; Till a priest of Isis came, Called the wicked boy by name, Shut him in a pyramid, Where his punishment was hid.

--But the crocodile the while Bore the pincers up the Nile-- Here the scribe who taught him letters, And respect for all his betters, Gave him many a heavy task, Horrid medicines from a flask, While on bread and water, too, Bitter penance must he do.

The Crocodile is blythe and gay, With friends and family at play, And cries, "O blessed Land of Nile, Where sacred is the crocodile, Where no ill deed unpunished goes, And man himself rewards our foes!"

_Anonymous_.

THE c.u.mBERBUNCE

I strolled beside the shining sea, I was as lonely as could be; No one to cheer me in my walk But stones and sand, which cannot talk-- Sand and stones and bits of sh.e.l.l, Which never have a thing to tell.

But as I sauntered by the tide I saw a something at my side, A something green, and blue, and pink, And brown, and purple, too, I think.

I would not say how large it was; I would not venture that, because It took me rather by surprise, And I have not the best of eyes.

Should you compare it to a cat, I'd say it was as large as that; Or should you ask me if the thing Was smaller than a sparrow's wing, I should be apt to think you knew, And simply answer, "Very true!"

Well, as I looked upon the thing, It murmured, "Please, sir, can I sing?"

And then I knew its name at once-- It plainly was a c.u.mberbunce.

You are amazed that I could tell The creature's name so quickly? Well, I knew it was not a paper-doll, A pencil or a parasol, A tennis-racket or a cheese, And, as it was not one of these, And I am not a perfect dunce-- It had to be a c.u.mberbunce!

With pleading voice and tearful eye It seemed as though about to cry.

It looked so pitiful and sad It made me feel extremely bad.

My heart was softened to the thing That asked me if it, please, could sing.

Its little hand I longed to shake, But, oh, it had no hand to take!

I bent and drew the creature near, And whispered in its pale blue ear, "What! Sing, my c.u.mberbunce? You can!

Sing on, sing loudly, little man!"

The c.u.mberbunce, without ado, Gazed sadly on the ocean blue, And, lifting up its little head, In tones of awful longing, said:

"Oh, I would sing of mackerel skies, And why the sea is wet, Of jelly-fish and conger-eels, And things that I forget.

And I would hum a plaintive tune Of why the waves are hot As water boiling on a stove, Excepting that they're not!"

"And I would sing of hooks and eyes, And why the sea is slant, And gayly tips the little ships, Excepting that I can't!

I never sang a single song, I never hummed a note.

There is in me no melody, No music in my throat."

"So that is why I do not sing Of sharks, or whales, or anything!"

I looked in innocent surprise, My wonder showing in my eyes.

"Then why, O, c.u.mberbunce," I cried, "Did you come walking at my side And ask me if you, please, might sing, When you could not warble anything?"

"I did not ask permission, sir, I really did not, I aver.

You, sir, misunderstood me, quite.

I did not ask you if I _might_.

Had you correctly understood, You'd know I asked you if I _could_.

So, as I cannot sing a song, Your answer, it is plain, was wrong.

The fact I could not sing I knew, But wanted your opinion, too."

A voice came softly o'er the lea.

"Farewell! my mate is calling me!"

I saw the creature disappear, Its voice, in parting, smote my ear--

"I thought all people understood The difference 'twixt 'might' and 'could'!"

_Paul West_.

THE AHKOND OF SWAT

Who, or why, or which, or _what_, Is the Ahkond of Swat?

Is he tall or short, or dark or fair?

Does he sit on a stool or sofa or chair, or Squat, The Ahkond of Swat?

Is he wise or foolish, young or old?

Does he drink his soup and his coffee cold, or Hot, The Ahkond of Swat?

Does he sing or whistle, jabber or talk, And when riding abroad does he gallop or walk, or Trot, The Ahkond of Swat?

Does he wear a turban, a fez or a hat?