An Alphabet of History Part 5

Old Homer tells us fully how Penelope received him, And how, to give her pleasure, all these stories he would weave: He also tells us solemnly Penelope believed him!

(That portion of the Odyssey we never can believe.)

VILLON

[Ill.u.s.tration]

Villon--bard of the early times, Familiarly called Francois-- 'Twas he who juggled so with rhymes That we regard him now with awe; His Pegasus knew "Gee" from "Haw".

He drove with all a jockey's art And ran each race without a flaw-- Villon gave these ballades their start.

Must he flee to some safer climes?

Did hunger at his vitals gnaw?

Or was he jailed for varied crimes?

In that he inspiration saw And, pen held in a grimy paw Would let his flashing fancy dart Ofttimes in measures rather raw-- Villon gave these ballades their start.

His purse was ever bare of dimes; He often felt the grip of law; Yet he, the jolliest of mimes, Who slept most nights upon the straw And wakened to the raucous caw Of ravens, never shirked his part; He never stopped at fate to jaw-- Villon gave these ballades their start.

L'ENVOI

Princess, the moral's here to draw: When poets go into the mart The editors say coldly: "Pshaw!

Villon gave these ballades their start."

WATT

[Ill.u.s.tration]

When Watt was but a little boy-- His papa's pride, his mama's joy-- He sat beside the kitchen fire The bubbling teapot to admire; And as he watched the hissing steam He straightway then began to dream Of what the vapor hot could do If how to use it he but knew.

Eventually he devised A neat invention which surprised The people of that early day-- He made an engine, anyway.

This poor contrivance he improved Until by it great loads were moved And horses were displaced by rails, While sidewheels took the place of sails.

Observe, my child, how one small thing A wondrous lot of change will bring: Because wise little Jimmy Watt Could turn to some account his thought, Today the trains go whizzing through The land, and o'er the ocean blue The mighty ships scoot night and day From here to countries far away.

Great thanks are due to this James Watt, Also to his mama's teapot, By porters who on every trip Hold up the tourist for a tip, And also by that mighty ma.s.s Of folks who travel on a pa.s.s, And by the ones who rake in rocks Through squeezes that they work in stocks.

But that it would like punning seem We'd say Watt has the world's esteem (But since we've said it that way now We'll let the pun go, anyhow).

But, somehow, when we chanced to stop Beside some busy boiler shop, We cannot say that peace was brought To all of us by Jimmy Watt.

XANTIPPE

[Ill.u.s.tration]

Xantippe was the lady who was wed to Socrates-- And their life was not a grand, sweet song; 'Twas a study--just a study--done in all the minor keys With the gloomy measures turned on strong.

When old Socrates was busy at the office, she would wait Till he ambled in at 3 a.m.

And she met him in the moonlight 'twixt the doorway and the gate-- Then the neighbors heard a lot from them.

But Socrates--he didn't mind when she pulled out his hair, When she would box his ears for him he didn't seem to care-- In a manner bland and wise He would then philosophize On the Whyness of the Whichness of the Neither Here Nor There.

Xantippe did the cooking, and (we have to tell the truth)-- Indigestion quickly seized on him, And in one of her biscuits on a time he broke a tooth, Yet he smiled across at wifey grim.

When she tried her hand at pastry was the only time he spoke, And of course he had to make a break-- 'Twas perhaps the first appearance of the ever-lasting joke On the pies that mother used to make.

Poor Socrates! He never even ducked his head or dodged But merely rubbed the spot whereon the flying platter lodged, Then he murmured: "Xanty, dear, You have made a problem clear"-- Then he went to get the swelling on his cranium ma.s.saged.

Xantippe wouldn't let him smoke at all about the place, And she wouldn't let him take a drink.

He never learned the value of a two-spot or an ace-- For 'most all that he could do was think.

Thus you see that though Xantippe has been fiercely criticized, Yet she really made her husband's fame, For 'twas while she bossed him sorely that the great man a.n.a.lyzed All the subjects that have made his name.

Xantippe made him famous; but for her the man had been Forgotten like the others of the time that he lived in.

"Oh, my darling, such a help!"

He most gratefully would yelp When she gave him an impression with a busy rolling-pin.

YVETOT

[Ill.u.s.tration]

There was a king of Yvetot, And easy was his head, Serene his rest--naught would suggest The words so often said, That crowned heads are not peaceful; He never wore a frown-- He laughed away the night and day.

With gayly tilted crown.

The jester of his palace Was never forced to work, He never had to make things glad With oily smile and smirk.

This jolly king of Yvetot Had no need of his fool-- He made his own jests from the throne And pleasure was his rule.

He never had a quarrel With any other king; "Why should we fight?" he asked. "Delight Is such an easy thing."

He told no one his troubles-- In truth, he reigned so well No one could know, in fair Yvetot, Of troubles fit to tell.

The little realm of Yvetot-- A wee spot on the map-- Has made a name secure in fame Because of this rare chap Who put his crown on sidewise And lolled upon his throne With scepter set so that it met His active funny bone.

He was to war a stranger; His kingdom had no debt; Each of his laws possessed a clause That barred out care and fret-- 'Tis told that when expiring He wasted his last breath In one long laugh in life's behalf, And thus went to his death.

There was a king of Yvetot-- There are such kings today; They never sigh for things gone by But laugh along the way.

So, crown yourself with laughter, Put pleasure on the throne, And you'll possess in happiness An Yvetot of your own.