Second Book of Verse Part 5

THE CAFe MOLINEAU.

THE Cafe Molineau is where A dainty little minx Serves G.o.d and man as best she can By serving meats and drinks.

Oh, such an air the creature has, And such a pretty face!

I took delight that autumn night In hanging round the place.

I know but very little French (I have not long been here); But when she spoke, her meaning broke Full sweetly on my ear.

Then, too, she seemed to understand Whatever I'd to say, Though most I knew was "oony poo,"

"Bong zhoor," and "see voo play."

The female wit is always quick, And of all womankind 'Tis here in France that you, perchance, The keenest wits shall find; And here you'll find that subtle gift, That rare, distinctive touch, Combined with grace of form and face, That glads men overmuch.

"Our girls at home," I mused aloud, "Lack either that or this; They don't combine the arts divine As does the Gallic miss.

Far be it from me to malign Our belles across the sea, And yet I'll swear none can compare With this ideal She."

And then I praised her dainty foot In very awful French, And parleyvood in guileful mood Until the saucy wench Tossed back her haughty auburn head, And froze me with disdain: "There are on me no flies," said she, "For I come from Bangor, Maine!"

HOLLY AND IVY.

HOLLY standeth in ye house When that Noel draweth near; Evermore at ye door Standeth Ivy, shivering sore In ye night wind bleak and drear; And, as weary hours go by, Doth ye one to other cry.

"Sister Holly," Ivy quoth, "What is that within you see?

To and fro doth ye glow Of ye yule-log flickering go; Would its warmth did cherish me!

Where thou bidest is it warm; I am shaken of ye storm."

"Sister Ivy," Holly quoth, "Brightly burns the yule-log here, And love brings beauteous things, While a guardian angel sings To the babes that slumber near; But, O Ivy! tell me now, What without there seest thou?"

"Sister Holly," Ivy quoth, "With fair music comes ye Morn, And afar burns ye Star Where ye wondering shepherds are, And the Shepherd King is born: 'Peace on earth, good-will to men,'

Angels cry, and cry again."

Holly standeth in ye house When that Noel draweth near; Clambering o'er yonder door, Ivy standeth evermore; And to them that rightly hear Each one speaketh of ye love That outpoureth from Above.

THE BOLTONS, 22.

WHEN winter nights are grewsome, and the heavy, yellow fog Gives to Piccadilly semblance of a dank, malarious bog; When a demon, with companion in similitude of bell, Goes round informing people he has crumpets for to sell; When a weird, asthmatic minstrel haunts your door for hours along, Until you've paid him tu'pence for the thing he calls a song,-- When, in short, the world's against you, and you'd give that world, and more, To lay your weary heart at rest upon your native sh.o.r.e, There's happily one saving thing for you and yours to do: Go call on Isaac Henderson, The Boltons, 22.

The place is all so cheery and so warm I love to spend My evenings in communion with the genial host, my friend.

One sees _chefs d'uvre_ of masters in profusion on the walls, And a monster canine swaggers up and down the s.p.a.cious halls; There are divers things of beauty to astound, instruct, and please, And everywhere a.s.surance of contentment and of ease: But best of all the gentle hearts I meet with in the place,-- The host's good-fellowship, his wife's sincere and modest grace; Why, if there be cordiality that warms you through and through, It's found at Isaac Henderson's, The Boltons, 22.

My favorite room's the study that is on the second floor; And there we sit in judgment on men and things galore.

The fire burns briskly in the grate, and sheds a genial glare On me, who most discreetly have pre-empted Isaac's chair,-- A big, low chair, with grateful springs, and curious device To keep a fellow's cerebellum comf'table and nice, A shade obscures the functions of the stately lamp, in spite Of Mrs. Henderson's demands for somewhat more of light; But he and I demur, and say a mystic gloom will do For winter-night communion at The Boltons, 22.

Sometimes he reads me Browning, or from Bryant culls a bit, And sometimes plucks a gem from Hood's philosophy and wit; And oftentimes I tell him yarns, and (what I fear is worse) Recite him sundry specimens of woolly Western verse.

And while his muse and mine transcend the bright Horatian's stars, He smokes his modest pipe, and I--I smoke his choice cigars!

For best of mild Havanas this considerate host supplies,-- The proper brand, the proper shade, and quite the proper size; And so I buckle down and smoke and smoke,--and so will you, If ever you're invited to The Boltons, 22.

But, oh! the best of worldly joys is as a dream short-lived: 'Tis twelve o'clock, and Robinson reports our cab arrived.

A last libation ere we part, and hands all round, and then A cordial invitation to us both to come again.

So home through Piccadilly and through Oxford Street we jog, On slippery, noisy pavements and in blinding, choking fog,-- The same old route through Circus, Square, and Quadrant we retrace, Till we reach the princely mansion known as 20 Alfred Place; And then we seek our feathery beds of cotton to renew In dreams the sweet distractions of The Boltons, 22.

G.o.d bless you, good friend Isaac, and your lovely, gracious wife; May health and wealth attend you, and happiness, through life; And as you sit of evenings that quiet room within, Know that in spirit I shall be your guest as I have been.

So fill and place beside that chair that dainty claret-cup; Methinks that ghostly hands shall take the tempting offering up, That ghostly lips shall touch the bowl and quaff the ruby wine, Pledging in true affection this toast to thee and thine: "May G.o.d's best blessings fall as falls the gentle, gracious dew Upon the kindly household at The Boltons, 22!"

DIBDIN'S GHOST.

DEAR wife, last midnight, whilst I read The tomes you so despise, A spectre rose beside the bed, And spake in this true wise: "From Canaan's beatific coast I've come to visit thee, For I am Frognall Dibdin's ghost,"

Says Dibdin's ghost to me.

I bade him welcome, and we twain Discussed with buoyant hearts The various things that appertain To bibliomaniac arts.

"Since you are fresh from t' other side, Pray tell me of that host That treasured books before they died,"

Says I to Dibdin's ghost.

"They've entered into perfect rest; For in the life they've won There are no auctions to molest, No creditors to dun.

Their heavenly rapture has no bounds Beside that jasper sea; It is a joy unknown to Lowndes,"

Says Dibdin's ghost to me.

Much I rejoiced to hear him speak Of biblio-bliss above, For I am one of those who seek What bibliomaniacs love.

"But tell me, for I long to hear What doth concern me most, Are wives admitted to that sphere?"

Says I to Dibdin's ghost.

"The women folk are few up there; For 'twere not fair, you know, That they our heavenly joy should share Who vex us here below.

The few are those who have been kind To husbands such as we; They knew our fads, and didn't mind,"

Says Dibdin's ghost to me.

"But what of those who scold at us When we would read in bed?

Or, wanting victuals, make a fuss If we buy books instead?

And what of those who've dusted not Our motley pride and boast,-- Shall they profane that sacred spot?"

Says I to Dibdin's ghost.

"Oh, no! they tread that other path, Which leads where torments roll, And worms, yes, bookworms, vent their wrath Upon the guilty soul.

Untouched of bibliomaniac grace, That saveth such as we, They wallow in that dreadful place,"

Says Dibdin's ghost to me.

"To my dear wife will I recite What things I've heard you say; She'll let me read the books by night She's let me buy by day.