Chimneysmoke Part 19

She walked in the pantry and sampled the bread, But when she came back her old husband was dead: Long had he lived, for his legs they were fast, But the kitchen maid caught him and squashed him at last.

NURSERY RHYMES FOR THE TENDER-HEARTED

IV

I knew a black beetle, who lived down a drain, And friendly he was though his manners were plain; When I took a bath he would come up the pipe, And together we'd wash and together we'd wipe.

Though mother would sometimes protest with a sneer That my choice of a tub-mate was wanton and queer, A nicer companion I never have seen: He bathed every night, so he must have been clean.

Whenever he heard the tap splash in the tub He'd dash up the drain-pipe and wait for a scrub, And often, so fond of ablution was he, I'd find him there floating and waiting for me.

But nurse has done something that seems a great shame: She saw him there, waiting, prepared for a game: She turned on the hot and she scalded him sore And he'll never come bathing with me any more.

THE TWINS

Con was a thorn to brother Pro-- On Pro we often sicked him: Whatever Pro would claim to know Old Con would contradict him!

[Ill.u.s.tration: _The Twins_]

A PRINTER'S MADRIGAL

(_Extremely technical_)

I'd like to have you meet my wife!

I simply cannot keep from hinting I've never seen, in all my life, So fine a specimen of printing.

Her type is not some =bold-face= font, Set solid. Nay! And I will say out That no typographer could want To see a better balanced layout.

A nice proportion of white s.p.a.ce There is for brown eyes to look large in, And not a feature in her face Comes anywhere too near the margin.

Locked up with all her sweet display Her form will never pi. She's like a Corrected proof marked _stet, O. K._-- And yet she loves me, fatface =Pica!=

She has a fine one-column head, And like a comma curves each eyebrow-- Her forehead has an extra lead Which makes her seem a trifle highbrow.

Her nose, _italicized brevier_, Too lovely to describe by penpoint; Her mouth is set in _pearl_: her ear And chin are comely Caslon ten-point.

Her cheeks (a pink parenthesis) Make my pulse beat 14-em measure, And such typography as this Would make =De Vinne= scream with pleasure.

And so, of all typefounder chaps Her father's best, in my opinion; She is my NONPAREIL (IN CAPS) And I (in lower case) her _minion_.

I hope you will not stand aloof Because my metaphors are shoppy; Of her devotion I've a proof-- I tell the urchin, _Follow Copy_!

THE POET ON THE HEARTH

When fire is kindled on the dogs, But still the stubborn oak delays, Small embers laid above the logs Will draw them into sudden blaze.

Just so the minor poet's part: (A greater he need not desire) The charcoals of his burning heart May light some Master into fire!

O PRAISE ME NOT THE COUNTRY

O praise me not the country-- The meadows green and cool, The solemn glow of sunsets, the hidden silver pool!

The city for my craving, Her lordship and her slaving, The hot stones of her paving For me, a city fool!

O praise me not the leisure Of gardened country seats, The fountains on the terrace against the summer heats-- The city for my yearning, My spending and my earning.

Her winding ways for learning, Sing hey! the city streets!

O praise me not the country, Her sycamores and bees, I had my youthful plenty of sour apple trees!

The city for my wooing, My dreaming and my doing; Her beauty for pursuing, Her deathless mysteries.

O praise me not the country, Her evenings full of stars, Her yachts upon the water with the wind among their spars-- The city for my wonder, Her glory and her blunder, And O the haunting thunder Of the Elevated cars!

[Ill.u.s.tration: Seascape]

A STONE IN ST. PAUL'S GRAVEYARD

(New York)

_Here Lyes the Body of_ _Iohn Jones the Son of_ _Iohn Jones Who Departed_ _This Life December the 13_ _1768 Aged 4 Years & 4 Months & 2 Days_

Here, where enormous shadows creep, He casts his childish shadow too: How small he seems, beneath the steep Great walls; his tender days, so few, Lovingly numbered, every one-- John Jones, John Jones's little son.

O sunlight on the Lightning's wings!