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_Unknown._
THE ROLLICKING MASTODON
A rollicking Mastodon lived in Spain, In the trunk of a Tranquil Tree.
His face was plain, but his jocular vein Was a burst of the wildest glee.
His voice was strong and his laugh so long That people came many a mile, And offered to pay a guinea a day For the fractional part of a smile.
The Rollicking Mastodon's laugh was wide-- Indeed, 'twas a matter of family pride; And oh! so proud of his jocular vein Was the Rollicking Mastodon over in Spain.
The Rollicking Mastodon said one day, "I feel that I need some air, For a little ozone's a tonic for bones, As well as a gloss for the hair."
So he skipped along and warbled a song In his own triumphulant way.
His smile was bright and his skip was light As he chirruped his roundelay.
The Rollicking Mastodon tripped along, And sang what Mastodons call a song; But every note of it seemed to pain The Rollicking Mastodon over in Spain.
A Little Peetookle came over the hill, Dressed up in a bollitant coat; And he said, "You need some harroway seed, And a little advice for your throat."
The Mastodon smiled and said, "My child, There's a chance for your taste to grow.
If you polish your mind, you'll certainly find How little, how little you know."
The Little Peetookle, his teeth he ground At the Mastodon's singular sense of sound; For he felt it a sort of a musical stain On the Rollicking Mastodon over in Spain.
"Alas! and alas! has it come to this pa.s.s?"
Said the Little Peetookle. "Dear me!
It certainly seems your horrible screams Intended for music must be!"
The Mastodon stopped, his ditty he dropped, And murmured, "Good morning, my dear!
I never will sing to a sensitive thing That shatters a song with a sneer!"
The Rollicking Mastodon bade him "adieu."
Of course 'twas a sensible thing to do; For Little Peetookle is spared the strain Of the Rollicking Mastodon over in Spain.
_Arthur Macy._
_NONSENSE VERSES_
THE INVISIBLE BRIDGE
I'd Never Dare to Walk across A Bridge I Could Not See; For Quite afraid of Falling off, I fear that I Should Be!
THE LAZY ROOF
The Roof it has a Lazy Time A-lying in the Sun; The Walls they have to Hold Him Up; They do Not Have Much Fun!
MY FEET
My feet, they haul me Round the House, They Hoist me up the Stairs; I only have to Steer them and They Ride me Everywheres.
_Gelett Burgess._
SPIRK TROLL-DERISIVE
The Crankadox leaned o'er the edge of the moon, And wistfully gazed on the sea Where the Gryxabodill madly whistled a tune To the air of "Ti-fol-de-ding-dee."
The quavering shriek of the Fliupthecreek Was fitfully wafted afar To the Queen of the Wunks as she powdered her cheek With the pulverized rays of a star.
The Gool closed his ear on the voice of the Grig, And his heart it grew heavy as lead As he marked the Baldekin adjusting his wig On the opposite side of his head; And the air it grew chill as the Gryxabodill Raised his dank, dripping fins to the skies To plead with the Plunk for the use of her bill To pick the tears out of his eyes.
The ghost of the Zhack flitted by in a trance; And the Squidjum hid under a tub As he heard the loud hooves of the Hooken advance With a rub-a-dub-dub-a-dub dub!
And the Crankadox cried as he laid down and died, "My fate there is none to bewail!"
While the Queen of the Wunks drifted over the tide With a long piece of c.r.a.pe to her tail.
_James Whitcomb Riley._
THE MAN IN THE MOON
Said the Raggedy Man on a hot afternoon, "My!
Sakes!
What a lot o' mistakes Some little folks makes on the Man in the Moon But people that's been up to see him like Me, And calls on him frequent and intimutly, Might drop a few hints that would interest you Clean!
Through!
If you wanted 'em to-- Some actual facts that might interest you!
"O the Man in the Moon has a crick in his back Whee!
Whimm!
Ain't you sorry for him?
And a mole on his nose that is purple and black; And his eyes are so weak that they water and run If he dares to _dream_ even he looks at the sun,-- So he jes' dreams of stars, as the doctor's advise-- My!
Eyes!
But isn't he wise-- To jes' dream of stars, as the doctors advise?
"And the Man in the Moon has a boil on his ear-- Whee!
Whing!
What a singular thing!
I know! but these facts are authentic, my dear,-- There's a boil on his ear; and a corn on his chin,-- He calls it a dimple,--but dimples stick in,-- Yet it might be a dimple turned over, you know!
Whang!
Ho!
