John Smith, U.S.A Part 5

For that pink of female gender Tall and shapely was, and slender, Plump of neck and bust and arms; While the raiment that invested Her so jealously suggested Certain more potential charms.

Those dark eyes of her that fired him-- Those sweet accents that inspired him, And her crown of glorious hair-- These things baffle my description; I should have a fit conniption If I tried--so I forbear!

May be Lydia had her betters; Anyway, this man of letters Took that charmer as his pick; Glad--yes, glad I am to know it!

I, a fin de siecle poet, Sympathize with Lydia d.i.c.k!

Often in my arbor shady I fall thinking of that lady And the pranks she used to play; And I'm cheered--for all we sages Joy when from those distant ages Lydia dances down our way.

Otherwise some folks might wonder With good reason why in thunder Learned professors, dry and prim, Find such solace in the giddy Pranks that Horace played with Liddy Or that Liddy played on him.

Still this world of ours rejoices In those ancient singing voices, And our hearts beat high and quick, To the cadence of old Tiber Murmuring praise of roistering Liber And of charming Lydia d.i.c.k.

Still, Digentia, downward flowing, Prattleth to the roses blowing By the dark, deserted grot; Still, Soracte, looming lonely, Watcheth for the coming only Of a ghost that cometh not.

THE TIN BANK.

Speaking of banks, I'm bound to say That a bank of tin is far the best, And I know of one that has stood for years In a pleasant home away out west.

It has stood for years on the mantelpiece Between the clock and the Wedgwood plate-- A wonderful bank, as you'll concede When you've heard the things I'll now relate.

This bank was made of McKinley tin, Well soldered up at sides and back; But it didn't resemble tin at all, For they'd painted it over an iron black.

And that it really was a bank 'Twas an easy thing to see and say, For above the door in gorgeous red Appeared the letters B-A-N-K!

The bank had been so well devised And wrought so cunningly that when You put your money in at the hole It couldn't get out of that hole again!

Somewhere about that stanch, snug thing A secret spring was hid away, But _where_ it was or _how it_ worked-- Excuse me, please, but I will not say.

Thither, with dimpled cheeks aglow, Came pretty children oftentimes, And, standing up on stool or chair, Put in their divers pence and dimes.

Once Uncle Hank came home from town After a cycle of grand events, And put in a round, blue, ivory thing, He said was good for 50 cents!

The bank went clinkety-clinkety-clink, And larger grew the precious sum Which grandma said she hoped would prove A gracious boon to heathendom!

But there were those--I call no names-- Who did not fancy any plan That did not in some wise involve The candy and banana man.

Listen; once when the wind went "Yooooooo!"

And the raven croaked in the tangled tarn-- When, with a wail, the screech-owl flew Out of her lair in the haunted barn-- There came three burglars down the road-- Three burglars skilled in arts of sin, And they cried: "What's this? Aha! Oho!"

And straightway tackled the bank of tin.

They burgled from half-past ten p.m., Till the village bell struck four o'clock; They hunted and searched and guessed and tried-- But the little tin bank would not unlock!

They couldn't discover the secret spring!

So, when the barn-yard rooster crowed, They up with their tools and stole away With the bitter remark that they'd be blowed!

Next morning came a sweet-faced child And reached her dimpled hand to take A nickel to send to the heathen poor And a nickel to spend for her stomach's sake.

She pressed the hidden secret spring, And lo! the bank flew open then With a cheery creak that seemed to say: "I'm glad to see you; come again!"

If you were I, and if I were you, What would we keep our money in?

In a downtown bank of British steel, Or an at-home bank of McKinley tin?

Some want silver and some want gold, But the little tin bank that wants the two And is run on the double standard plan-- Why, that is the bank for me and you!

IN NEW ORLEANS

'Twas in the Crescent city not long ago befell The tear-compelling incident I now propose to tell; So come, my sweet collector friends, and listen while I sing Unto your delectation this brief, pathetic thing-- No lyric pitched in vaunting key, but just a requiem Of blowing twenty dollars in by 9 o'clock a.m.

Let critic folk the poet's use of vulgar slang upbraid, But, when I'm speaking by the card, I call a spade a spade; And I, who have been touched of that same mania, myself, Am well aware that, when it comes to parting with his pelf, The curio collector is so blindly lost in sin That he doesn't spend his money--he simply blows it in!

In Royal Street (near Conti) there's a lovely curio-shop, And there, one balmy, fateful morn, it was my chance to stop: To stop was hesitation--in a moment I was lost-- That kind of hesitation does not hesitate at cost: I spied a pewter tankard there, and, my! it was a gem-- And the clock in old St. Louis told the hour of 8 a.m.!

Three quaint Bohemian bottles, too, of yellow and of green, Cut in archaic fashion that I ne'er before had seen; A lovely, hideous platter wreathed about with pink and rose, With its curious depression into which the gravy flows; Two dainty silver salters--oh, there was no resisting them.-- And I'd blown in twenty dollars by 9 o'clock a.m.

With twenty dollars, one who is a prudent man, indeed, Can buy the wealth of useful things his wife and children need; Shoes, stockings, knickerbockers, gloves, bibs, nursing-bottles, caps, A gown--the gown for which his spouse too long has pined, perhaps!

These and ten thousand other specters harrow and condemn The man who's blowing in twenty by 9 o'clock a.m.

Oh, mean advantage conscience takes (and one that I abhor!) In asking one this question: "What did you buy it for?"

Why doesn't conscience ply its blessed trade before the act, Before one's cussedness becomes a bald, accomplished fact-- Before one's fallen victim to the Tempter's strategem And blown in twenty dollars by 9 o'clock a.m.?

Ah, me! now the deed is done, how penitent I am!

I was a roaring lion--behold a bleating lamb!

I've packed and shipped those precious things to that most precious wife Who shares with our sweet babes the strange vicissitudes of life, While he, who, in his folly, gave up his store of wealth, Is far away, and means to keep his distance--for his health!

THE PETER-BIRD.

Out of the woods by the creek cometh a calling for Peter, From the orchard a voice echoes and echoes it over; Down in the pasture the sheep hear that strange crying for Peter, Over the meadows that call is aye and forever repeated.

So let me tell you the tale, when, where and how it all happened, And, when the story is told, let us pay heed to the lesson.

Once on a time, long ago, lived in the state of Kentucky One that was reckoned a witch--full of strange spells and devices; Nightly she wandered the woods, searching for charms voodooistic-- Scorpions, lizards, and herbs, dormice, chameleons and plantains!

Serpents and caw-caws and bats, screech-owls and crickets and adders-- These were the guides of the witch through the dank deeps of the forest.

Then, with her roots and her herbs, back to her cave in the morning Ambled that hussy to brew spells of unspeakable evil; And, when the people awoke, seeing the hillside and valley Sweltered in swathes as of mist--"Look!" they would whisper in terror-- "Look! the old witch is at work brewing her spells of great evil!"

Then would they pray till the sun, darting his rays through the vapor, Lifted the smoke from the earth and baffled the witch's intentions.

One of the boys at that time was a certain young person named Peter, Given too little to work, given too largely to dreaming; Fonder of books than of ch.o.r.es you can imagine that Peter Led a sad life on the farm, causing his parents much trouble.

"Peter!" his mother would call, "the cream is a-ready for churning!"

"Peter!" his father would cry, "go grub at the weeds in the garden!"

So it was "Peter!" all day--calling, reminding and chiding-- Peter neglected his work; therefore that nagging at Peter!

Peter got hold of some books--how I'm unable to tell you; Some have suspected the witch--this is no place for suspicions!

It is sufficient to stick close to the thread of the legend.

Nor is it stated or guessed what was the trend of those volumes; What thing soever it was--done with a pen and a pencil, Wrought with the brain, not a hoe--surely 'twas hostile to farming!

"Fudge on the readin'!" they quoth; "that's what's the ruin of Peter!"

So, when the mornings were hot, under the beech or the maple, Cushioned in gra.s.s that was blue, breathing the breath of the blossoms.