Tobogganing on Parnassus Part 15

Take of these elements any you care about, Put 'em in Texas, the Bowery, or thereabout; Put in the powder and leave out the grammar, And the certain result is a swell melodrammer.

A Poor Excuse, But Our Own

(Why don't you ever write any child poetry?

--A MOTHER.)

My right-hand neighbour hath a child, A pretty child of five or six, Not more than other children wild, Nor fuller than the rest of tricks-- At five he rises, shine or rain, And noisily plays "fire" or "train."

Likewise a girl, _aetatis_ eight, He hath. Each morning, as a rule, Proudly my neighbour will relate How bright Mathilda is at school.

My ardour, less than half of mild, Bids me to comment, "Wondrous child!"

All through the vernal afternoon My other neighbour's children skate A wild Bacchantic rigadoon On rollers; nor does it abate Till dark; and then his babies cry What time I fain would versify.

Did I but set myself to sing A children's song, I'd stand revealed A bard that did the infant thing As well as Riley or 'Gene Field.

I could write famous Children Stuff, If they'd keep quiet long enough.

Monotonous Variety

(All of them from two stories in a single magazine.)

She "greeted" and he "volunteered"; She "giggled"; he "a.s.serted"; She "queried" and he "lightly veered"; She "drawled" and he "averted"; She "scoffed," she "laughed" and he "averred"; He "mumbled," "parried," and "demurred."

She "languidly responded"; he "Incautiously a.s.sented"; Doretta "proffered lazily"; Will "speedily invented"; She "parried," "whispered," "bade," and "mused"; He "urged," "acknowledged," and "refused."

She "softly added"; "she alleged"; He "consciously invited"; She "then corrected"; William "hedged"; She "prettily recited"; She "nodded," "stormed," and "acquiesced"; He "promised," "hastened," and "confessed."

Doretta "chided"; "cautioned" Will; She "voiced" and he "defended"; She "vouchsafed"; he "continued still"; She "sneered" and he "amended"; She "smiled," she "twitted," and she "dared"

He "scorned," "exclaimed," "p.r.o.nounced," and "flared."

He "waived," "believed," "explained," and "tried"; "Commented" she; he "muttered"; She "blushed," she "dimpled," and she "sighed"; He "ventured" and he "stuttered"; She "spoke," "suggested," and "pursued"; He "pleaded," "pouted," "called," and "viewed."

O synonymble writers, ye Whose work is so high-pricey.

Think ye not that variety May haply be too spicy?

Meseems that in an elder day They had a thing or two to _say_.

The Amateur Botanist

A primrose by a river's brim _Primula vulgaris_ was to him, And it was nothing more; A pansy, delicately reared, _Viola tricolor_ appeared In true botanic lore.

That which a pink the layman deems _Dianthus caryophyllus_ seems To any flower-fan; or A sunflower, in that talk of his, _Annuus helianthus_ is, And it is nothing more.

A Word for It

"Scorn not the sonnet." Well, I reckon not, I would not scorn a rondeau, villanelle, Ballade, sestina, triolet, rondel, Or e'en a quatrain, humble and forgot, An so it made my Pegasus to trot His morning lap what time he heard the bell; An so it made the poem stuff to jell-- To mix a met.--an so it boil'd the pot.

Oh, sweet set form that varies not a bit!

I taste thy joy, not quite unknown to Keats.

"Scorn?" Nay, I love thy fine symmetric grace.

In sonnets one knows always where to quit, Unlike in other poems where one cheats And strings it out to fill the yawning s.p.a.ce.

The Poem Speaks

(Cut this out in either case.)

Poet, ere you write me, Stem the flowing ink; Or that you indite me Pause upon the brink.

Strummer of the lyre Maker of the tune, Give me a desire-- Bless me with a boon.

Let me be a rondeau With a sweet refrain, Or an aliquando Sonnet to the rain;

Let me be a lyric Tenuous as air, Or an a la Viereck Pa.s.sion song to hair;

Ballad, epic, quatrain, Couplet--ay, a line-- "Let it rain or not rain, Let it storm or shine."

Shape me as you list to, Glorious or small; Put a comic twist to Anything at all.

Only give me fame that Never, never dies, Christen me a name that Reaches to the skies.

This is my ambition: Not the greatest rhyme, Not the first position On the page of time--

But, O poet, steep me, Till, with gum and hooks, Womenfolk will keep me In their pocket-books!

"Bedbooks"

(There is said to be a steady demand for "bedbooks"

in England. There are readers who find in Gibbon a sedative for tired nerves; there are others who enjoy Trollope's quiet humour. Some people find in Henry James's tangled syntax the restful diversion they seek, and others enjoy Mr. Howells's unexciting realism.

--_The Sun_.)

How sleep the brave who sink to rest, Lulled by the waves of dreamy diction, Like that appearing in the best Of modern fiction!

When sleeplessness the Briton claims, And hits him with her wakeful wallop, He goes to Gibbon or to James, Or maybe Trollope.