The Book of Humorous Verse Part 62

I'm filled with surprise Taxidermists should pa.s.s Off on you such poor gla.s.s; So unnatural they seem They'd make Audubon scream, And John Burroughs laugh To encounter such chaff.

Do take that bird down; Have him stuffed again, Brown!"

And the barber kept on shaving.

"With some sawdust and bark I could stuff in the dark An owl better than that.

I could make an old hat Look more like an owl Than that horrid fowl, Stuck up there so stiff like a side of coa.r.s.e leather.

In fact, about _him_ there's not one natural feather."

Just then, with a wink and a sly normal lurch, The owl, very gravely, got down from his perch, Walked round, and regarded his fault-finding critic (Who thought he was stuffed) with a glance a.n.a.lytic, And then fairly hooted, as if he should say: "Your learning's at fault _this_ time, anyway; Don't waste it again on a live bird, I pray.

I'm an owl; you're another. Sir Critic, good day!"

And the barber kept on shaving.

_James Thomas Fields._

WHAT WILL WE DO?

What will we do when the good days come-- When the prima donna's lips are dumb, And the man who reads us his "little things"

Has lost his voice like the girl who sings; When stilled is the breath of the cornet-man, And the shrilling chords of the quartette clan; When our neighbours' children have lost their drums-- Oh, what will we do when the good time comes?

Oh, what will we do in that good, blithe time, When the tramp will work--oh, thing sublime!

And the scornful dame who stands on your feet Will "Thank you, sir," for the proffered seat; And the man you hire to work by the day, Will allow you to do his work your way; And the cook who trieth your appet.i.te Will steal no more than she thinks is right; When the boy you hire will call you "Sir,"

Instead of "Say" and "Guverner"; When the funny man is humorsome-- How can we stand the millennium?

_Robert J. Burdette._

LIFE IN LACONICS

Given a roof, and a taste for rations, And you have the key to the "wealth of nations."

Given a boy, a tree, and a hatchet, And virtue strives in vain to match it.

Given a pair, a snake, and an apple, You make the whole world need a chapel.

Given "no cards," broad views, and a hovel, You have a realistic novel.

Given symptoms and doctors with potion and pill, And your heirs will ere long be contesting your will.

That good leads to evil there's no denying: If it were not for _truth_ there would be no _lying_.

"I'm n.o.body!" should have a hea.r.s.e; But then, "I'm somebody!" is worse.

"Folks say," _et cetera_! Well, they shouldn't, And if they knew you well, they wouldn't.

When you coddle your life, all its vigor and grace Shrink away with the whisper, "We're in the wrong place."

_Mary Mapes Dodge._

ON KNOWING WHEN TO STOP

The woodchuck told it all about.

"I'm going to build a dwelling Six stories high, up to the sky!"

He never tired of telling.

He dug the cellar smooth and well But made no more advances; That lovely hole so pleased his soul And satisfied his fancies.

_L. J. Bridgman._

REV. GABE TUCKER'S REMARKS

You may notch it on de palin's as a mighty resky plan To make your judgment by de clo'es dat kivers up a man; For I hardly needs to tell you how you often come across A fifty-dollar saddle on a twenty-dollar hoss; An', wukin' in de low-groun's, you diskiver, as you go, Dat de fines' shuck may hide de meanes' nubbin in a row.

I think a man has got a mighty slender chance for heben Dat holds on to his piety but one day out o' seben; Dat talks about de sinners wid a heap o' solemn chat, And nebber draps a nickel in de missionary hat; Dat's foremost in de meetin'-house for raisin' all de chunes, But lays aside his 'ligion wid his Sunday pantaloons.

I nebber judge o' people dat I meets along de way By de places whar dey come fum an' de houses whar dey stay; For de bantam chicken's awful fond o' roostin' pretty high, An' de turkey buzzard sails above de eagle in de sky; Dey ketches little minners in de middle ob de sea, An' you finds de smalles' possum up de bigges' kind o' tree!

_Unknown._

THURSDAY

The sun was setting, and vespers done; From chapel the monks came one by one, And down they went thro' the garden trim, In ca.s.sock and cowl, to the river's brim.

Ev'ry brother his rod he took; Ev'ry rod had a line and a hook; Ev'ry hook had a bait so fine, And thus they sang in the even shine: "Oh, to-morrow will be Friday, so we'll fish the stream to-day!

Oh, to-morrow will be Friday, so we'll fish the stream to-day!

Benedicite!"

So down they sate by the river's brim, And fish'd till the light was growing dim; They fish'd the stream till the moon was high, But never a fish came wand'ring by.

They fish'd the stream in the bright moonshine, But not one fish would he come to dine.

And the Abbot said, "It seems to me These rascally fish are all gone to sea.

And to-morrow will be Friday, but we've caught no fish to-day; Oh, to-morrow will be Friday, but we've caught no fish to-day!

Maledicite!"

So back they went to the convent gate, Abbot and monks disconsolate; For they thought of the morrow with faces white, Saying, "Oh, we must curb our appet.i.te!