Cobwebs from a Library Corner - John Kendrick Bangs (e textbook reader .TXT) 📗

all they have, most of ’em, just plain shape,
With less pure wine than any unripe grape.

But tomes that travel on their “looks” indeed
Are only good for those who do not read;

And, like most people clad in garments grand,
Seem rather heavy for the average hand.




WISE AND OTHERWISE

NAPOLINI’S ERROR


PIETRO NAPOLINI DI VENDETTA PASQUARELLE
Deserted balmy Italy, the land that loved him well,
And sailed for soft America, of wealth the very fount,
To earn sufficient dollars there to make himself a count.
Alas for poor Pietro! he arrived in winter-time,
And marvelled at the poet who observed in tripping rhyme
How this New World was genial, and a sunny sort of clime.

No chance had he for music that’s developed by a crank,
No chance had he at sculpture, nor a penny in the bank.
The pea-nut trade was languid, and for him too full of risk;
He thought the work on railways for his blood was rather brisk.
The sole profession left him to assuage his stomach’s woe,
It struck him in meandering the city to and fro,
Was surely that of shovelling away the rich man’s snow.

And then P. Napolini di Vendetta Pasquarelle
Sought out a city thoroughfare, the swellest of the swell.
He stole a shovel, and he found a broom he thought would do,
Then rang the massive front-door bell of Stuyvesant Depew.
“I wanta shov’ da snow,” he said, when there at last appeared
Fitzjohn Augustus Higgins, who in Birmingham was reared,
A man by all in low estate much hated and much feared.

“Go wi,” said Fitz, with gesture bold. “Yer cahn’t do nothink ere,
Yer bloomin’, hugly furriner!” he added, with a sneer.
“Hi thinks as ’ow you dagoes is the cuss o’ this ’ere land,
With wuthy citizens like me ’most starved on every ’and.
Hi vows hif I’d me wi at all hi’d order hout a troop,
Hand send the bloomin’ lot o’ yer ’ead over ’eels in soup.
Git hout, yer nahsty grabber yer; hewacuate the stoop.”

Then when the snow had melted off, Fitzjohn Augustus went
And humbly asked his master for two dollars that he’d spent
In paying Napolini di Vendetta Pasquarelle;
While Nap went back to Italy, the land that loved him well,
Convinced that when he sailed that time his country to forsake,
He must have got aboard the ship when he was half awake,
And got to London, not New York, by some most odd mistake.



MY COLOR


MY best-loved color? Well, I think I like
A soft and tender dewy green—for grass.
Sometimes a pink my fancy too will strike—
In lobster _purée_ or a Sauterne glass.

Blue is a color, too, I greatly love.
It’s sort of satisfying to my eyes.
’Tis their own color; and I’m quite fond of
This hue also for soft Italian skies.

For blushes, give me red, nor hesitate
To pile it on; I like it good and strong
Upon the cheeks of her I call my Fate,
The loveliest of all the lovely throng.

On golden-yellow oft my fancy dwells.
’Tis almost godlike, as it sparkles through
The effervescent fizz; and wondrous spells
It casts o’er me when coined in dollars, too.

Hence, friend, it is I cannot specify
What hues particular my joys enhance.
I like them all; their popularity
At special times depends on circumstance.



CONTENTMENT IN NATURE


I WOULD not change my joys for those
Of Emperors and Kings.
What has my gentle friend the rose
Told them, if aught, do you suppose—
The rose that tells me things?

What secrets have they had with trees?
What romps with grassy spears?
What know they of the mysteries
Of butterflies and honey-bees,
Who whisper in my ears?

What says the sunbeam unto them?
What tales have brooklets told?
Is there within their diadem
A single rival to the gem
The dewy daisies hold?

What sympathy have they with birds
Whose songs are songs of mine?
Do they e’er hear, as though in words
’Twas lisped, the message of the herds
Of grazing, lowing kine?

Ah no! Give me no lofty throne,
But just what Nature yields.
Let me but wander on, alone
If need be, so that all my own
Are woods and dales and fields.



THE HEROIC GUNNER

When the order was given to withdraw from battle for breakfast, one of the gun-captains, a privileged character, begged Commodore Dewey to let them keep on fighting until “we’ve wiped ’em out.”—_War Anecdote in Daily Paper._


AT the battle of Manila,
In the un-Pacific sea,
Stood a gunner with his mad up
Just as far as it could be—
Stood a gunner brave and ready
For the hated enemy.

Near the Isles of Philopena
Raged the battle all the morn,
And the plucky Spanish sailors
By the shot and shell were torn;
And the flag that floated o’er them
To oblivion was borne.

Every cannon belched projectiles,
Every cannon breathed forth hell,
Every cannon mowed the foeman
From the deck into the swell,
When amid the din of battle
Rang the silvery breakfast-bell.

“Stop your shooting! Come to breakfast!”
Cried the gallant Commodore.
“After eating we will let them
Have a rousing old encore.
Stow your lanyards, O my Jackies;
Let the cannon cease to roar.”

Then upspake the fighting gunner:
“Dewey, don’t, I beg of you.
What’s the use of drinking coffee
Till we’ve put this scrimmage through?
If there’s any one who’s hungry,
Won’t this Spanish omelet do?

“Farragut would not have done it
When through Mobile Bay he sped.
Why then, Dewey, should we breakfast
Till we’ve plunked ’em full of lead?
Let our motto be as his was—
_Damn the fishballs! Go ahead!_”



THE PATHETIC TALE OF THE CADDY BOY


“COME here,” said I, “oh caddy boy, and tell me how it haps
You cling so fast unto these links; not like the other chaps,
Who like to dally on the streets and play the game of craps?

“Is it that you enjoy the work of carrying a bag
While others speed the festive ball o’er valley, hill, and crag?
And do your spirits never seem to falter or to flag?

“I’ve watched you many a day, my lad, and puzzled o’er the fact
That you are so attentive to the game; your every act
Doth indicate perfection—there’s been nothing you have lacked.

“And I would know just why it is that you so perfect seem—
In all my golfing days you’ve been the very brightest gleam—
Or am I lying home in bed and are you just a dream?”

“Oh, sir,” said he, “I caddy here because I love my pa;
I cling unto these gladsome links because I love my ma;
In short, I love my parents, sir, and these my reasons are:

“’Twas but a year ago, good sir, when first this ancient sport
Came in the portals of our home—home of the sweetest sort;
When golf came through the window, sir, why home went through the port.

“My father first he took it up, and many a weary night
My mother with us children waited up by candle-light,
In hopes that he’d return and free us from our lonely plight.

“Then mother she went after him—alas! that it should be—
And shortly learned the game herself—she plays it famously—
Which left us children orphans, I and all my brothers three.

“They play it here, they play it there, they play it everywhere;
No matter what the weather, be it wet or be it fair,
And for the cares of golf they’ve dropped their every other care.

“And so it is that we poor lads are forced to leave our home,
And join the ranks of caddy boys who o’er the fields do roam
In search of little golf-balls in the sunlight and the gloam;

“For some day we are hoping that our eyes again will see
Our most beloved parents on some putting-green or tee;
A sight to gladden all our hearts if it should ever be.”

And lo—I looked upon that boy—his face was sweet and sad,
And to my heart there came a twinge, for in that little lad
I recognized my eldest son—_I_ was that wicked dad!

And now together we are out on links at home and far.
He and his three small brothers with their shamed, repentant pa,
A-looking here and looking there to find their dear mamma.



GARRULOUS WISDOM


I KNOW a wondrous man—my neighbor he;
He’s ripe in years, and great in understanding.
He’s versed in art, and in philosophy
He shows a mind that’s verily commanding.

He’ll stand before a painting, and without
A single instant’s thought, or hesitation,
He’ll tell the painter’s name, nor any doubt
Is there he gives the proper information.

The rocks, the hills and valleys, hold from him
No secret that is past a man’s revealing.
He knows why some are stout and others slim;
He comprehends all