Kitabı oku: «Mother Goose for Grown-ups», sayfa 4

THE JUDICIOUS JUDGMENT OF QUITE CONTRARY MARY

 
Though Mary had the kind of face
The rudest wind would softly blow on;
Though she was full of simple grace,
Sweet, amiable, and kind, and so on;
I would not have you understand
That she was meek. You'd be mistaken.
She worked out logarithms, and
Her favorite essayist was Bacon.
 
 
And, though not positive, I think
She'd heard about Savonarola,
Had studied Maurice Maeterlinck,
And read the works of Emile Zola,
And Emerson's and some of Kant's,
And all of mine and Shopenhauer's;
But still she cultivated plants,
And spent her life in tending flowers.
 
 
She had a little hedge of box,
Azalias, and a bed of tansy,
A double row of hollyhocks,
And every different kind of pansy:
And, though so innocent of look,
She'd lovers by the scores and dozens,
And learned, by talking with the cook,
To tell her friends they were her cousins.
 
 
The first was French, the second Greek,
The third was born upon the Mersey,
The fourth one came from Mozambique,
The fifth one from the Isle of Jersey.
I cannot tell about the rest,
But, judging from their dress and faces,
They came from north, east, south, and west,
But all of them from different places.
 
 
Now, such was Mary's sense of pride,
Despite their fervent protestations,
Before she vowed to be a bride
She set them all examinations:
She asked each one to tell the date
Of Washington and Cleopatra,
Name Dickens' novels, and locate
The site of Yonkers and Sumatra.
 
 
But so it chanced that, from a score
Of suitors resolute and haughty,
One gained a mark of sixty-four,
And all the rest were under forty.
One swain alone the rest outclassed;
Because of one audacious guess, he
This strict examination passed
When Mary asked the date of Crécy.
 
 
The moral shows that when a maid
Her life devotes unto a garden,
When horticultural skill's displayed
Her heart she does not dare to harden.
So crafty suitors, scorn the fates
And you may lay this flattering balm to
Your souls; if you but get your dates
The chances are you'll get the palm, too!
 

THE LINGUISTIC LANGUOR OF CHARLES AUGUSTUS SPRAGUE

 
A child of nature curious
Was Charles Augustus Sprague;
He made his parents furious
Because he was so vague:
Although his age was nearly two
Eleven words were all he knew,
These sounded much as sounds the Dutch
That's spoken at The Hague.
 
 
A few of his errata
'Tis just I should avow,
He called his mother "Tata,"
And "moo" he dubbed a cow,
Nor was it altogether plain
Why "choo-choo" meant a railway train.
He called a cat "miouw," and that
No purist would allow.
 
 
Within his father's orchard
There stood, for all to see,
With branches bent and tortured,
An ancient apple tree:
That Charles Augustus Sprague might drowse
His mother on its swaying boughs
His cradle hung, and, while it swung,
She sang with energy.
 
 
A sudden blow arising
One day, the branches broke,
With suddenness surprising
The sleeping babe awoke,
And crashing down to earth he fell.
Ah me, that I should have to tell
The words that mild and genial child
On this occasion spoke!
 
 
His face convulsed and chequered
With passion and with tears,
He blotted out the record
Of both his speechless years:
His mother stupefied, aghast,
Heard Charles Augustus speak at last;
He opened wide his mouth and cried
These ill conditioned sneers.
 
 
"Sapristi! Accidente!
Perchance my speech is late,
But, be she two or twenty,
A nincompoop I hate!
What idiot said that woman's 'planned
To warn, to comfort, and command?'"
His words I quench. Excuse my French —
Je dis que tu m'embêtes!
 
 
The moral: Common clocks, we find,
In silence take a sudden wind,
But only heroes, as we know,
In silence take a sudden blow.
 

THE MYSTERIOUS MISAPPREHENSION CONCERNING A MAN IN OUR TOWN

 
There was a man in our town,
Half beggar, half rapscallion,
Who, just because his eyes were brown,
Was thought to be Italian:
And, though with much insistence
He said that people erred,
And bitterly to Italy
He frequently referred,
The false report, as is the way
Of false reports, had come to stay!
 
 
So every one who'd been to Rome
By aid of Cook's or Gaze's,
Would call upon him at his home
To flaunt Italian phrases.
"Capite Questa lingua?"
The inquiry would be:
"Pochissimo? Benissimo!
Vi prego, ditemi,
Siete voi contento qua,
Lontano dall'Italia?"
 
 
The victim, plunged in deep disgust,
Grew nervous, could not slumber;
Said he, "I'm called Italian, just
Because my eyes are umber,
And if this persecution
Is ever to be stopped,
Some stern and stoic, hard, heroic
Course I must adopt!"
And so, to everyone's surprise,
He calmly scratched out both his eyes!
 
 
The neighbors said: "So strange a thing
Might seem to be an omen.
We thought his wits were wandering,
But now we know they're Roman!"
And so at him by legions,
By bevies, hosts, and herds,
Professors, purists, tramps, and tourists
Screamed Italian words.
Perceiving all he'd done was vain,
He scratched his eyesight in again.
 
 
The moral: If your neighbors say
You're one thing or another,
You'll find there isn't any way
Their prejudice to smother.
What matter if they think you
From Italy or Greece?
I beg you, treasure no displeasure:
Bow and hold your peace.
Like Omar, underneath the bow
You'll find there's paradise enow!