Tobogganing on Parnassus Part 16

No paltry limit, such as those The craving-slumber Yankee curses-- He has a wealth of poppy prose And opiate verses.

A grain of--ought I mention names And say whence sleep may be inspired?

Is it the thing to say of James, "He makes me tired?"

To say "a dose of Phillips, or A capsule of Sinclair or Brady, Is just the thing to make me snore?"

Oh, lackadaydee!

Nay! It were churlish to review And specify by marked attention Our bedbooks. They are far too nu- Merous to mention.

A New York Child's Garden of Verses

(With the usual.)

I

In winter I get up at night, And dress by an electric light.

In summer, autumn, ay, and spring, I have to do the self-same thing.

I have to go to bed and hear Pianos pounding in my ear, And hear the janitor cavort With garbage cans within the court.

And does it not seem hard to you That I should have these things to do?

Is it not hard for us Manhat- Tan children in a stuffy flat?

II

It is very nice to think The world is full of food and drink; But, oh, my father says to me They cost all of his salaree.

III

When I am grown to man's estate I shall be very proud and great; E'en now I have no reverence, 'Cause I read comic supplements.

IV

New York is so full of a number of kids I'm sure pretty soon we shall be invalids.

V

A child should always say what's true, And speak when he is spoken to; And then, when manhood's age he strikes, He may be boorish as he likes.

Downward, Come Downward

(With apologies to the estate of Elizabeth Akers Allen.)

Downward, come downward, O Cost in your flight, Soaring like Paulhan or W. Wright!

Prices, come down from the limitless sky, Down to the reach of the Ultimate Guy.

Once you were not quite so far from the ground; Once we had lamb chops at 10c. a pound.

Give us the days ere the cost took a leap, When things were cheap, mother, when they were cheap.

Backward, flow backward, O Living's Advance, Back from the purlieus of Airy Romance!

Back to the days when a porterhouse steak Didn't cost half of what people could make!

Back to the days when a regular egg Didn't drive people to borrow and beg!

Oh, for the days when the hog and the sheep Were not as diamonds--when they were cheap.

Speaking of Hunting

When a b.u.t.ton rolls under the bureau The search is a woeful affair; And the humorous weekly describes it but meekly In saying the hunter will swear.

But what is that limited anger?

The impotent rage of a cub!

I only grow what you could really call hot When the soap slips under the tub.

I've sought through a time-table's mazes, And sworn at the men who devise That scare and delusion of hopeless confusion, That intricate bundle of lies.

But never a hunt that was harder, Be you or professor or dub, Than that ill-fated jest--I refer to the quest-- When the soap falls back of the tub

My paste pot escapes almost daily; My scissors I never can find; And I am the rotter who loses a blotter More often than if he were blind.

But sooner a myriad searches Than go to the worry and troub.

That one little cake saponaceous can make When the soap slips under the tub-- Blank! Blank!

When the soap slips under the tub.

The Flat-Hunter's Way

We don't get any too much light; It's pretty noisy, too, at that; The folks next door stay up all night; There's but one closet in the flat; The rent we pay is far from low; Our flat is small and in the rear; But we have looked around, and so We think we'll stay another year.

Our dining-room is pretty dark; Our kitchen's hot and very small; The "view" we get of Central Park We really do not get at all.

The ceiling cracks and crumbles down Upon me while I'm working here-- But, after combing all the town, We think we'll stay another year.

We are not "handy" to the sub; Our hall-boy service is a joke; Our janitor's a foreign dub Who never does a thing but smoke Our landlord says he will not cut A cent from rent already dear; And so we sought for better--but We think we'll stay another year.

Birds and Bards

When Milton sang "O nightingale That on yon gloomy spray,"

The sonneteer whom we revere Lauded that birdie's lay.

While Keats's ode upon that bird Was limpid as the notes That, sweet and strong, were in the song Of Philomelian throats.