The Bee's Bayonet (a Little Honey and a Little Sting)

MEN HAD HORNS THEN

Newspaper Item, Athens, Pa., July 29: The archaeologists who are traversing the Susquehanna River Valley, visiting sites of Indian villages and digging up aborigines and other relics, are said to have made a most astounding discovery on the Murray farm, near here, in finding the bones of sixty-eight pre-historic men. The average height of these men when their skeletons were assembled was seven feet, while many were much taller. Additional evidence of their gigantic size is found in the massive stone battle axes in their graves. The average age of these men is said to have been from thirty to forty. Another amazing point of this discovery is the allegation that "perfectly formed skulls were found from which horns grew straight out from the head."

The Homestead of Satan, they say, has been foundNear Athens, P. A., in a hole in the ground;And people are flocking from Athens and SayreTo view the remains of their ancestors there.When Satan established himself in this zoneHe found it distasteful to live all alone;So he went to Towanda in quest of a bride,And then tilled the soil till his seed multiplied.So scores of young Devils at Murray's were bornThat measured five cubits between hoof and horn.Each one was equipped with a tail and two wings,And asbestos garments at Nick's Sulphur Springs.And that's why you find all their skeletons hereIn good preservation: but isn't it queerThat Devils at Athens, the place of their birth,Were the sole legatees of Hell upon Earth?But Devils, like men, reach the ends of their ropes,And have disappointments and unfulfilled hopes,—So Satan discovered, too late we are told,The climate at Murray's was too beastly cold.His imps all contracted pneumonia and died;So he buried them here in the Pit, side by side,Near Athens, P. A., by the River Chemung,Where they've been unmolested till now, and unsung.And there their bones bleached, in the Sulphuric Pits,Until Archæologists came with their kitsAnd made excavations, not thinking of harm,But raising the devil at Rube Murray's Farm.Now Satan's exposed and his ossified get,(A few yet remain in the flesh, I regret!)And Murray of Athens is living, I wotOn skeletons dug from this Hell-enic spot.

SUB ROSA

The Busy Bee, to gather honey, goesTouching the clover bloom and then the rose;An easy prey, the clover blossom yieldsIts treasures garnered from the fragrant fields;But all the sweetness that the rose adorns,Protected is from theft by jealous thorns.The Bee, ergo, in quest the flowers among,Gets sometimes honey and gets sometimes stung.

WHITMANESQUE

The snow is falling on the hemlock boughs:Courage, Comrade, Spring will come again!The birds are leaving the evergreen trees,And that's why they are not deciduous.O, Winter! I shake thy icy hand,And, shaking, shovel the beautiful snow:But what shall I do with such an abundance?It is already piled high in my neighbor's yard,And he is watching me from his attic window.And yet more snow! How pure you seem tho' falling!

AN APEOLOGY

This is the Ape, made famous, you'll agree,By Darwin's Evolution Theory.His destiny fulfilled, he rests at easeWith tribal Apes, Baboons and Chimpanzees;Preferring, so, to recreation find,Than with his tailless counterpart, Mankind,A doubtful branch of his posterity:And makes a monkey, thus, of you and me.

THE BUG

This is the Bug, unable to resistThe blandishments of Entomologist.He soon succumbs to net or trap or pinAnd fills his place the cabinet within.A volume then explains his habits, source,And all his secrets and his aims of course;Which leads me to conclude, when facts are dug,The Man of Science is the biggest "Bug."

WAKE, MY LOVE!

Darling, I my vigil keepClose beside you, while you sleep.Let the Dream of Love abide!Cupid will not be denied;For he whispers to you now,And prints kisses on your brow;While his velvet finger tipsHush the protest on your lips.Wake, My Love! And do not chideCupid pleading by your side!Darkness lingers in the skiesTill the light of your bright eyesAdds new brilliance to the sun:Not till then is Day begun!Ope your lips and speak one word—Sweetest cadence ever heard!Loose your tresses! Let them restOn your snowy, virgin breast,And entwine these roses rareIn the ringlets nestling there.Wake, My Love! The sunbeams shedGolden treasures on your head;While Æolus woos your cheeks,And exacts the kiss he seeks.Love, aquiver, draws his bowAnd demands that sleep must go;For a jealous elf is heWho will brook no rivalry.So let Love a Kingdom makeIn his Heart for Thee: Awake!

FIRST PSALM

Happy indeed is he who goesThe Straight and Narrow Way,And heedeth not the lure of thoseWho from His precepts stray.With joy observeth he the actsThe Master doth proclaim,And, day or night, no fervor lacksTo bless His holy name.And he shall be a fruitful treeDeep-rooted in the Truth;And not a leaf shall withered beNor fruitage cease, forsooth.But those who follow not the CourseThe Master hath decreed,Shall shrivel and decay, perforce,And barren be their seed.It follows then, that those who sinMust turn again to clay,While righteous men are gathered inOn Resurrection Day.For God rewards the Pure in HeartAnd knoweth all their needs;While those who from his ways departShall be like broken reeds.

NOT PEACE, BUT REVENGE!

Peace? do you say? When my homestead is razed,And Death stalks the fields where my cattle once grazed;And the Dear One is deadWhom I courted and wed,The Joy of my Life when the hearthstone fires blazed.Peace? What a travesty! Give back my wifeAnd the brave little son, who gave up his lifeThat she might escapeFrom the murder or rapeOf helmeted hordes in the unequal strife!Peace? Where is my father? Cleaning your shoes!Like a thousand old men you maim and abuse.He was true to his Land,So you cut off his handAnd left him but slav'ry or famine to choose.Peace? My wounds cry aloud: Never! I sayTill your legions are killed or driven awayAnd my country is free:But, stay! What's that to me,Since all my own Loved Ones lie murdered to-day?No!! Not Peace, but Revenge! Here is my gun—Surrendered? O, No! for its work is not done:When my bayonet's stingSmites the heart of your King,And your hell-hounds are flayed,—then Peace will be won!

HEREDITY

I see her creeping 'long the nursery floor,—A dainty, blue-eyed Babe, scarce old enoughTo realize 'tis she whom I adore,—She is a priceless diamond in the rough.Again I see her playing with a hostOf noisy, kindergarten girls and boys;She seems to me the fairest and the mostRefined: a pure gold girl without alloys.And thus from stage to stage I watch the maidAs she develops like the budding rose,And then, Ah me! I'm jealously afraidThat she admires me less than other beaux.And then, anon, I see her on the kneeOf Willie Jones: I think she shouldn't oughter!But then my Courtship Days come back to me—Just like her Ma! She is my only Daughter!

THE CALL OF THE HOMESTEAD

There's a dear, little spot, near my Hoosier hometown,Where the mortgage runs up as the buildings run down,That I love to return to, a restful retreat,Just to slush around there with the mud on my feet.There's the forked, wormy apple-tree, dead to the bark,And the sickle and grindstone, brought out of the Ark;And the Shed, where I fled, with my illicit pipe,To assuage stomach-aches when green apples were "ripe."There's the collar and churn, worn by Dash day by day,And the chain that prevented his running away;And the yoke for the oxen—Haw, Buck! and Gee, Bride!And the Troth for the Squealers the hen-house beside.There's the Dovecote, unroofed, and the sweep by the well,And the ooze in the barnyard and natural-gas smell:There's the hayrake and silo; the tin weathervane,And the two, moss-grown graves where the Old Folks were lain.And the milk-stools are there, and the cowpath and stile;And a few hardy scarecrows remain yet awhile;And the taxes, unpaid, still appear on the bookOf the County Collector, Nathaniel U. Crook.So I keep coming back, to my old Hoosier shack,To inhale the sweet mildew of hay in the stack,And to drink from the spring where the bull-frogs aboundThat protect the young cowslips that grow all around.Now the mortgage is due and the int'rest unpaid,And I can't get a cent for the place, I'm afraid;But I love to return here, at vacation time,Just to revel again in the mud and the slime.

DECIMAL POINTS

The Paleface undertook, with sword and gun,To civilize the Redskins one by one;And Lo attempted, with his bow and arrow,To sap the Paleface of his very marrow.As fast as one, on either side, was slainAnother took his place to fight again;Thus both the warring tribes said—"What's the use?"And straightway called a halt and signed a truce.Then Paleface planned and dug—and well of course—A pit for Lo, without resort to force;And Lo, in turn, a counter plan inventedTo clear the forests where the Paleface tented.And so the Paleface, from his fullness, gaveA cask of Laughing Water to each Brave;And Lo, whose giving was an artful knack,Took up the scent and sent tobacco back.So, Time discloses how each plan availed;Which won, at last, and which, in order, failed,For now in Peace the Paleface moves about,While Lo and Laughing Water fight it out.He was the first to fly—Darius Green!But Green had trouble with his crude machineAnd failed to make a mark for lofty flying,And so he just dropped out and gave up trying.The Pickaninny to the bayou goesAnd caches on the bank his homespun clothes;Then headlong leaps into the pool belowWhere Imps of Darkness destined are to go.An alligator sees the urchin diveAnd, Holy Moses! swallows him alive,Not thinking that the Afric strength, thus caged,Would prove his match and master when engaged:But so it did! for Fate evolved a planTo snatch the "charcoal" from the saurian;And as the latter spewed and lashed his tail,(A tale like Jonah wrestling with the whale)The lad escaped; of course he had to shout some!So overjoyed was he at such an outcome.When Aaron Burr decided to inviteHis hated rival to a pistol fight,He knew, of course, because his aim was wicked,That his opponent, in advance, was líckéd.And thus the scheme of Providence beganTo canonize the Hamiltonian.Had Mary tied her lambkin in the barn,There might have been a different kind of yarn.She could have said "I leave you" with the bull,Or "I'll return anon," and pulled the wool;The lamb could have replied—"What's all this for?I'll meet you, Mary, in the abattoir!"But No! They had to make the sheep the goatAnd tie a siren bell around his throat,And make him go to school. "Kids," as a rule,Would rather much be killed than go to school.Had Nero played on burning Rome the hoseInstead of fiddling while the blazes rose,He might have been, in Fame's Retort, a hero,Firemano Primo Volunteero Nero.But quite another part this Cæsar played,The part of Arson in red robes arrayed.He watched the fire, in all its flares and phases,Quite unconcerned, but fiddled on like blazes.But Nero didn't finish what he startedBecause, while Rome still burned, his E string parted.Tho Julius Cæsar's Wars our lives inspireThis Cæsar wouldn't even fight a fire;Nor would he lead the Roman Legions, thoHe was reputed skillful with the bow;Perhaps the smoke-screen from the burning cityWas planned to hide the discords of his ditty;And when at last this King is placed on trial,This verdict will prevail,—his work was viol.Had Antony been less a Marc and keptHis armor on while Cleopatra slept,He might have been a Conqueror of noteInstead of Captor of a Petticoat;And, traitor to his country, judged to beA Soldier less than Slave to Lingerie.Some Commentators—and I blush with shame—Contend that "Cle" and Sheba were the same:If this contention's true, as I surmise,It follows that King Solomon was wise;And so was Sheba when she left his regionsBy camel-carriage for the Roman Legions,—Leaving the King, with all his wives and breeders,To pine for her among the stately cedars.I'm not quite sure, but who's the bigger dunce?The King? Or Marc, who got in wrong but once?The oldtime Reader taught us self-reliance(But this refers to school-days—not to Science!)And pointed out, in no uncertain style,Examples we should follow or revile.Old Rover, for example, was to meThe highest standard of true loyalty.He used to hang around the playground gateAnd there for Bones, his Master, sit and wait,Though Bones, poor dunce, each day when school was over,Was kept and spanked, but waited still old Rover.The Reader states that Rover, too, was fleet,And never knew the anguish of de feet;And had a face so honest, ear so quick,That he could steal a bone and dodge a stick.That's all the Reader says, but I believeHe grew too diabetic to retrieve,And so was cast aside—the poor old brute!Because the mange affected his hirsute;Was driven from the confines of his birthBecause not prized: Great Scott! a Kennelworth:And so, a rover still, thus doomed to fleaFar from his home and consanguinity;But, cast adrift in sinking bark, O, Setter!Than wienerwursts or sausages is better!There was a time when Henry Clay awokeTo see his fame and name go up in smoke.His reputation only went this far,That he was featured as a choice cigar.Before that day, when his renown was ripe,He also was distinguished as a pipe.Eliminating all attempts at joking,He was thus honored then, and still is smo-King.Had Eve, a woman of unusual birth,Who had the love of ev'ry man on earth,Been given what the modern wife receives,Fine frocks and hats instead of wreaths and leaves;A mansion, bank-account and car or carriage,Hers would have been the first ideal marriage.But selfish Adam took her to a cavern(Our present bridal parties seek a tavern.)And made her wash and sew and hem and hawWith fitting meekness 'cause his word was law.First Lady of the Land, she should have had 'em—All creature comforts but the stingy Adam.Faithful to husband, she should have insteadBroken her marriage vows upon his head.No wonder she was tempted: if she fell'Twas circumstantial, else she wouldn't tell.

BELLES-LETTRES

Hear the perfume of the belles,Social belles!What a loud auroma, a monopoly in smells!How they stinkle, stinkle, stinkle,When the corsage bursts in sight!While the powder in each wrinkleAnd the gewgaw gems that twinkleMake them ugly in the light;Reeking scent, scent, scent,When they're upright, prone or bentWhile the sachet begs for freedom, and the musk, revolting, yellsOn the belles, belles, belles, belles,Belles, belles, belles,On the weary, bleary, smeary Social Belles.Hear the monstrous Schoolhouse bells,Direful bells!What a dirge of irony their ting-a-ling expels!Like the chanticleer at morn,How they torture us, and warnWe must hurry or be cannedAt call of roll.How they peel their tunics andWhoop 'er up, with tireless tongues, to beat the band;What a toll!O, you blatant, brazen shells!You ringers for Mephisto, from superheated hells,With your knells!Truth compelsThat we voice our joy with yells'Cause you're hung and bound in cellsWhile we're swearing and despairing,O, you bells, bells, bells,Wicked bells, bells, bells, bells,Bells, bells, bells,O, you rocking, mocking, shocking Schoolhouse bells!

SANDY, THE PIPER

Do ye know me mon Sandy,—Sandy the Piper?'E's 'ome on a leave, with 'is chin shot away!They wouldn't a 'armed 'im, but some blooming sniperJust slipped 'im a slug from a roof in Bombay.'Ow did it all 'appen? Well, just one battalionWas left in the Barracks: the rest 'ad been sentTo guard the new Viceroy, with Major MacCallion:It was dubbed the "'Ot Scotch," this 12th Regiment.The Colonel was sick with a Jungle disorder,And 'arf of the time was well out of 'is 'ead;And when the Sepoys, from the 'Yderbad BorderRevolted and rushed us, the Colonel was dead.So Sandy and men were besieged and near choking,And most the battalion was killed or 'ad fell,While the fiends in the street, like devils a stoking,Were firing this 'ell 'ole with bullet and shell.'Twas 'ere that me Sandy broke out thru a window,Disguised as a Rajah, with turban and sword;And so, quite unnoticed (they thought him a Indoo!)'E soon joined the ranks of the mutinous 'orde.And then 'e 'arrangued 'em ('e knew all their jargon!)And urged 'em to scatter and uphold the law;But 'ere 'e was thru 'e was sick of 'is bargainWhen a bloody bomb-bullet 'alf shattered 'is jaw.So Sandy's back 'ome, but his features are altered:What a close shave 'e 'ad! 'is face is a sight!But when duty called 'e was there and ne'er faltered:With toot, shoot or Hoot, Mon! 'e mixed in the fight.'Is goatee is gone, with the chin where 'e grew it:'E was once very bonnie when 'e was a lad;And 'is bagpipe would charm me: my, 'ow 'e blew it!When 'e marched with 'is squad, a playing like mad.And I makes o'er 'im still, tho Sandy's not pretty,But a 'ero 'e is in Northlands and South:A gude wife I've been, tho I think it a pityThat Sandy was given to shoot off 'is mouth.

"BEN BOLT"

Ben Franklin was a Jester of the sortThat fused, with wit, rare wisdom in retort;And, on his mettle, tempered by a smileHis irony could hold them all awhile.King Louis' Court to impotence made pleaBefore the onslaughts of his repartee.His well-aimed jibes were quite as hard to dodgeAs meteors agleam with persiflage.His oily tongue worked on a swinging swivel,For he spat out his thoughts and didn't drivel.The Quakers, in his absence, had attacksOf blues, because they missed his almanacs;And Frenchmen soon began to understandAnd praise his jokes (in England contraband).He said to Louis, "Sire, the skies are down;I wouldn't give a Fillip for your crown."And added, "Nay, I wouldn't give a sou!There's just one Philip, but sixteen of you!"He had no fear, you see, of raining Kings,And, with umbrella raised, enjoyed his flings.Such pointed puns disfavor oft beget,But Louis laughed and so did Lafayette.Tho galley slave, like creatures of his type,He broke his chains, when Freedom's plans were ripe,And put the U. S. A. upon the chart,Allied to France, thru diplomatic art.To-day Ben Bolt, who clipped the lion's claws,For lightning work gets thunderous applause.The thunderbolts obeyed at his command,And currents, insubordinate, were canned.He kept the Upper Regions on the stringAnd shocked the Lower World like everything.All praise to Franklin, Diplomatic Star!He went where he was sent, but not too far:And tho he flew his mortal kite so high,Poor Richard's name illuminates the sky.

EXCELSIOR

The bale consigned to O. U. Crook,Upholsterer—marked, USE NO HOOK,Was not curled hair or even moss,Nor yet a mixture or a cross,Excelsior!"This Davenport was made to wear;Fine leather and best camel hair!"Said Crook (a patent skin all right,But all the "hair" was out of sight).Excelsior!And so Crook sold the lounge or couchTo some poor Boob with gold-filled pouch;And also sold an easy chair(The Easy Mark was stuffed for fair.)Excelsior!And thus he plied his artful trade(A better Craftsman ne'er was made)Until the shavings, dyed and curled,Resembled hair for all the world.Excelsior!O, baleful occupation his!The way he made his mattressesWould make a lounging layman sick.He sold for cash and gave no tick tick—Excelsior!A mark-down sale Crook staged in time—"Such bed-rock prices are a crime,""I get my hair by camel-train":But all his "hair" was cut in Maine—Excelsior!And then a fire occurred at lengthTo bolster Crook's financial strength:The glue that mocked the incensed airMistaken was for burning hair;Excelsior!Beware the pine-tree's fibrous heart!But this gave Crook his fiscal start,And now a tall, pine shaft is seenAbove Crook's grave; 'tis evergreen—Excelsior!

HER AND HIM

HerTo-day's her birthday: I'll not say which one,—But I have known her twenty years or moreWhen courtship days were joyously begun,And she had reached her sixteenth year, before.And so her age is no concern of mine:She may have dropped a birthday now and then,But surely she's improved with age like wine:I wouldn't wish her in her teens again.And she's my Pal! O, yes, we love, of course!But feel, besides, the joy of comradeshipThat finds expression at Love's very sourceIn language of the heart—not of the lip.And so she is my everlasting pride:To Beauty's very pinnacle she's grown!Thru life we'll seek our pleasures side by side;Her heart athrob with love for me alone.HimO, yes! we're splendid friends, Old Jack and I:He's growing grave and wrinkles now appearWhere once the smiles his cheeks were wont to ply.He's losing all his energy, I fear.I married him some twenty years agoWhen dancing was a chief delight of his;But now alone I trip the Terpsic toe,For poor, old Jack has got the rheumatiz.He's aging fast: I see it every day!He's fat and short of breath, yet how he snores!His few remaining hairs are saffron-grey,For nicotine keeps oozing from his pores.He seems so childish, but I humor himAltho my friends declare I'm such a dunce.Wrinkled, rheumatic; bare of brains and vim—Good-bye, Old Jack! You were a good one once!

THE PHILOSOPHY OF LIVING

We bivouac here and barely get acquaintedUntil the furlough ends; then we are sainted,Whether our acts deserve rebuke or praise.When we are dead the recollection staysOf virtues only: vices are excused,But to the living pardon is refused.And yet, alive, I'd rather be unsung,Than any Saint the catacombs among.Tho critics flay me and the censors sneer,'Twere better so, than praises on my bier.And so we walk life's slender rope till, bing!We slip and fall or someone cuts the string.Ambition lures us, but the pinkest peachIs always just beyond us, out of reach:And when, at last, we think we are in lineTo cross the threshold, lo! the Full House sign.We never quite obtain the golden urnTho rainbows beckon every way we turn.Who ever found, I ask you, all he sought?Our best endeavors ofttimes come to naught:And yet we trudge along, loath to confessWe're only groping in a wilderness;Plodding the sands that burn our feet, and hurt;Seeking the Promised Land, our just desert.Had Cæsar reached the zenith of his lifeWhen Brutus cut his friendship with the knife?The ladder broke and he was headlong flungWhile setting foot upon the topmost rung.Thus picture Cæsar giving up the ghostJust when he reached the pinnacle, almost!Did Bonaparte receive his proper due?He got it, but too late, at Waterloo.He played with fire, aroused the seething crater,And now, with Nick, inhabits the Equator.So we conclude, delving the lines between,He might as well have clung to Josephine.Tho Tell's renown illumes the Alpine skyWhose target was the Apple of his eye,As much distinction, and applause to boot,Should be bestowed on William's steady shoot:More praise to him, than the Toxopholite,Who held the apple but eschewed a bite!The worst of us hath goodness in his breast;The best of us but fails, put to the test,—So, in arrears, we strive to pay the priceFor Fortune's frowns or Fate's disastrous diceUntil we're bankrupt or too spent to wrestLong hoped-for treasure from Mad Mammon's chest.Tho life hath ups and downs, the weeping willowOur ends shapes better than the downy pillow.It takes stern measures to incline the bantling,In right direction, without switch or scantling.The optimist with farthings in his pouch,Gets more enjoyment than the wealthy Grouch;Thus cheerfulness, a product underrated,In every household should be cultivated.Give me the man who, tho in direst straits,Will thumb his sharp proboscis at the Fates;Who'll take the flimsy fire escape, or diveInto the net, glad to get out alive;Who, tho the skies be unpropitious, crowdsHis way along, unmindful of the clouds;Who never quits, in life's unequal bout,But keeps on fighting till he's counted out.

THE SIXTH OF APRIL

Awake, Americans! Awake! Awake!'Tis April Sixth! A year of War and yetThe Hun lines hold: Louvain is unavenged.Be Thou our Guide, O God of Joshua!Thru battles yet unstaged, and Comfort when,From War's Inferno comes the phantom file,The endless, ghastly file of martyred dead.Daughters of Belgium, thy vestal tearsMake womanhood still more an honored name;And Germany, when Reason reappears,Must dearly pay for her revolting shame!Awake, Americans! Our task is grim;For Hell and all the Imps of Sin derideThe Code of Morals, spit upon the Cross,Drive torturing nails into the bleeding fleshOf all Mankind who follow Him thru pathsMade plain and gladsome by the Golden Rule;And foist vile kultur as Refinement's height.And what of skulking Sharks, scum of the sea,That prey on Innocents, while o'er them flyPoised to inflict a further agony,The Vampire Bats that violate the sky?Behold the ravaged homes of Serbia!Where are her people? Ask the godless GothsWhose Car of Kultur crushed beneath its wheelsThis stalwart Race! Ask, too, the Bulgar hordes,The mountain wolves, who pounce upon and rend,In guise of Pacifiers of the Land,Those who escaped the onslaughts of the Huns.Tho sapped by hunger and disease; tho crushedBy overwhelming numbers of the foe,Thy Star, O, Serb, when battles' din be hushed,Shall rise again, suffused with Freedom's glow!Now in the sacred name of God our guide,Home, Country, Honor, Love and Motherhood,Can we indifferent be to ravishment,Wanton destruction, murder steeped in hate—This loathsome litter whelped by Junkerdom?'Tis ours to dare and crush this monstrous Thing:Our Allies worn and bleeding, struggle on.Armenian tears, a flood of pent-up grief,Flow on and on, a torrent of despair.Rape! Murder! Pillage! Is there no reliefFor Niobe, deserted, weeping there?Nation Invincible, unsheath thy blade!God be thy leader: Justice be thy Sword!Nor pause until the ruthless Beast is flayedWith sated steel—and Liberty restored!