A Satire Anthology

TO R. K

As long I dwell on some stupendousAnd tremendous (Heaven defend us!)Monstr’inform’-ingens-horrendousDemoniaco-seraphicPenman’s latest piece of graphic. —Browning.WILL there never come a seasonWhich shall rid us from the curseOf a prose which knows no reason,And an unmelodious verse? —When the world shall cease to wonderAt the genius of an Ass,And a boy’s eccentric blunderShall not bring success to pass? —When mankind shall be deliveredFrom the clash of magazines,And the inkstand shall be shiveredInto countless smithereens? —When there stands a muzzled stripling,Mute, beside a muzzled bore? —When the Rudyards cease from Kipling,And the Haggards Ride no more?J. K. Stephen.

TO MIGUEL DE CERVANTES SAAVEDRA

A  BLUEBIRD lives in yonder tree,Likewise a little chickadee,In two woodpeckers’ nests, rent free.There, where the weeping willow weeps,A dainty house-wren sweetly cheeps;From an old oriole’s nest she peeps.I see the English sparrow tiltUpon a limb with sun begilt;Her nest an ancient swallow built.So it was one of your old jests,Eh, Mig. Cervantes, that attests“There are no birds in last year’s nests?”Richard Kendall Munkittrick.

WHAT’S IN A NAME?

IN letters large upon the frame,That visitors might see,The painter placed his humble name:O’Callaghan McGee.And from Beersheba unto Dan,The critics, with a nod,Exclaimed: “This painting IrishmanAdores his native sod.“His stout heart’s patriotic flameThere’s naught on earth can quell;He takes no wild romantic nameTo make his pictures sell.”Then poets praise, in sonnets neat,His stroke so bold and free;No parlor wall was thought completeThat hadn’t a McGee.All patriots before McGeeThrew lavishly their gold;His works in the AcademyWere very quickly sold.His “Digging Clams at Barnegat,”His “When the Morning Smiled,”His “Seven Miles from Ararat,”His “Portrait of a Child,”Were purchased in a single day,And lauded as divine.…That night as in his atelierThe artist sipped his wine,And looked upon his gilded frames,He grinned from ear to ear:“They little think my real name’sV. Stuyvesant De Vere!”Richard Kendall Munkittrick.

WED

FOR these white arms about my neck —For the dainty room, with its ordered grace —For my snowy linen without a fleck —For the tender charm of this uplift face —For the softened light and the homelike air —The low, luxurious cannel fire —The padded ease of my chosen chair —The devoted love that discounts desire —I sometimes think, when twelve is struckBy the clock on the mantel, tinkling clear,I would take – and thank the gods for the luck —One single hour with the boys and the beer,Where the sawdust-scent of a cheap saloonIs mingled with malt; where each man smokes;Where they sing the street-songs out of tune,Talk Art, and bandy ephemeral jokes.By Jove, I do! And all the timeI know not a man that is there to-night,But would barter his brains to be where I’m —And I’m well aware that the beggars are right.H. C. Bunner.

ATLANTIC CITY

O  CITY that is not a city, unworthy the prefix Atlantic,Forlornest of watering-places, and thoroughly Philadelphian!In thy despite I sing, with a bitter and deep detestation —A detestation born of a direful and dinnerless evening,Spent in thy precincts unhallowed – an evening, I trust, may recur not.Never till then did I know what was meant by the word God-forsaken:Thou its betokening hast taught me, being the chiefest example.Thou art the scorned of the gods; thy sand from their sandals is shaken;Thee have they left in their wrath to thy uninteresting extensiveness,Barren, and bleak, and big; a wild aggregation of barracks,Miscalled hotels, and of dovecotes denominate cottages;A confusion of ugly girls, of sand, and of health-bearing breezes,With one unending plank-walk for a true Philadelphia “attraction.”City ambitiously named, why, with inducements delusive,Is the un-Philadelphian stranger lured to thy desert pretentious?’Tis not alone that thy avenues, broad and unpaved and unending,Reecho yet with the obsolete music of “Pinafore,”Whistled in various keys by the rather too numerous negro;’Tis not alone that Propriety – Propriety too Philadelphian —Over thee stretches an ægis of wholly superfluous virtue;That thou art utterly good; hast no single vice to redeem thee;’Tis not alone that thou art provincial in all things, and petty;And that the dulness of death is gay, compared to thy dulness —’Tis not alone for these things that my curse is to rest upon thee,But for a sin that crowns thee with perfect and eminent badness,Sets thee alone in thy shame, the unworthiest town on the sea-coast;This: That thou dinest at noon, and then in a manner barbarian,Soupless, and wineless, and coffeeless, untimely and wholly indecent,As is the custom, I learn, in Philadelphia proper.I rose, and I fled from thy supper. I said, “I will get me a dinner!”Vainly I wandered thy streets. Thy eating-places ungodlyKnew not the holiness of dinner. In all that evening I dined not;But in a strange, low lair, infested of native mechanics,Bolted a fried beefsteak for the physical need of my stomach.And for them that have fried that steak, in Aïdes’ lowest back-kitchen,May they eternally broil, by way of a warning to others.During my wanderings, I met and hailed with delight one Italian,A man with a name from “Pasquale” – the chap sung by Tagliapietra;He knew what it was to dine; he comprehended my yearnings;But the spell was also on him, the somnolent spell Philadelphian,And his hostelry would not be open till Saturday next; and I cursed him.Now this is not too much to ask – God knows! – that a mortal should want aPint of Bordeaux to his dinner, and a small cigarette for a climax;But these things being denied him, where, then, is your civilization?O Coney Island! of old I have reviled and blasphemed thee,For that thou dousest thy glim at an hour that is unmetropolitan;That thy frequenters’ feet turn townwards ere striketh eleven,When the returning cars are filled with young men and maidens,Most of the maidens asleep on the young men’s cindery shoulders —Yea, but I spake as a fool, insensate, disgruntled, ungrateful:Thee will I worship henceforth in appreciative humility;Luxurious and splendid and urban, glorious and gaslit and gracious,Gathering from every land thy gay and ephemeral tenantry,From the Greek who hails thee “Thalatta!” to the rustic who murmurs “My golly!”From the Bowery youth who requests his sweetheart to “Look at them billers!”To the Gaul whom thy laughing waves almost persuade to immersion.O Coney Island, thou art the weary citizen’s heaven —A heaven to dine, not die in, joyful and restful and clamful.Better one hour of thee than an age of Atlantic City!H. C. Bunner.

THE FONT IN THE FOREST

THERE’S a prim little pondAt the back of Beyond,And its waters are over your ears;It’s a sort of a tarnBehind Robin Hood’s barn,Where the fish live a million years.And the mortals who drinkAt its pebbly brinkAre immediately changed into mullets,Whose heads grow immenseAt their bodies’ expense,And whose eyes become bulbous as bullets.But they willingly stayWho have once found the way,And they crave neither credit nor blame;For to wiggle their tails,And to practise their scales,Is enough in the Fountain of Fame.Herman Knickerbocker Vielé.

THE ORIGIN OF SIN

HE talked about the originOf sin;But present sin, I must confess,He never tried to render less;But used to add, so people talk,His share unto the general stock —But grieved about the originOf sin.He mourned about the originOf sin;But never struggled very longTo rout contemporaneous wrong,And never lost his sleep, they say,About the evils of to-day —But wept about the originOf sin.He sighed about the originOf sin;But showed no fear you could detectAbout its ultimate effect;He deemed it best to use no force,But let it run its natural course —But moaned about the originOf sin.Samuel Walter Foss.

A PHILOSOPHER

ZACK BUMSTEAD useter flosserfizeAbout the ocean an’ the skies;An’ gab an’ gas f’um morn till noonAbout the other side the moon;An’ ’bout the natur of the placeTen miles beyend the end of space.An’ if his wife she’d ask the crankEf he wouldn’t kinder try to yankHisself out-doors an’ git some woodTo make her kitchen fire good,So she c’d bake her beans an’ pies,He’d say, “I’ve gotter flosserfize.”An’ then he’d set an’ flosserfizeAbout the natur an’ the sizeOf angels’ wings, an’ think, and gawp,An’ wonder how they make ’em flop.He’d calkerlate how long a skid’Twould take to move the sun, he did;An’ if the skid was strong an’ prime,It couldn’t be moved to supper-time.An’ w’en his wife ’d ask the loutEf he wouldn’t kinder waltz aboutAn’ take a rag an’ shoo the flies,He’d say, “I’ve gotter flosserfize.”An’ then he’d set an’ flosserfize’Bout schemes for fencing in the skies,Then lettin’ out the lots to rent,So’s he could make an honest cent.An’ if he’d find it pooty toughTo borry cash fer fencin’-stuff?An’ if ’twere best to take his wealthAn’ go to Europe for his health,Or save his cash till he’d enoughTo buy some more of fencin’-stuff;Then, ef his wife she’d ask the gumpEf he wouldn’t kinder try to humpHisself to t’other side the door,So she c’d come an’ sweep the floor,He’d look at her with mournful eyes,An’ say, “I’ve gotter flosserfize.”An’ so he’d set an’ flosserfize’Bout what it wuz held up the skies,An’ how God made this earthly ballJest simply out er nawthin’ ’tall,An’ ’bout the natur, shape, an’ formOf nawthin’ that he made it from.Then, ef his wife sh’d ask the freakEf he wouldn’t kinder try to sneakOut to the barn an’ find some aigs,He’d never move, nor lift his laigs;He’d never stir, nor try to rise,But say, “I’ve gotter flosserfize.”An’ so he’d set an’ flosserfizeAbout the earth, an’ sea, an’ skies,An’ scratch his head, an’ ask the causeOf w’at there wuz before time wuz,An’ w’at the universe ’d doBimeby w’en time hed all got through;An’ jest how fur we’d have to climbEf we sh’d travel out er time;An’ ef we’d need, w’en we got there,To keep our watches in repair.Then, ef his wife she’d ask the gawkEf he wouldn’t kinder try to walkTo where she had the table spread,An’ kinder git his stomach fed,He’d leap for that ar kitchen door,An’ say, “W’y didn’t you speak afore?”An’ when he’d got his supper et,He’d set, an’ set, an’ set, an’ set,An’ fold his arms, an’ shet his eyes,An’ set, an’ set, an’ flosserfize.Samuel Walter Foss.

THE FATE OF PIOUS DAN

“RUN down and get the doctor – quick!”Cried Jack Bean with a whoop;“Run, Dan; for mercy’s sake, be quick!Our baby’s got the croup.”But Daniel shook his solemn head,His sanctimonious brow,And said: “I cannot go, for IMust read my Bible now;For I have regular hours to readThe Scripture for my spirit’s need.”Said Silas Gove to Pious Dan,“Our neighbour, ’Rastus Wright,Is very sick; will you come downAnd watch with him to-night?”“He has my sympathy,” says Dan,“And I would sure be there,Did I not feel an inward callTo spend the night in prayer.Some other man with Wright must stay;Excuse me, while I go and pray.”“Old Briggs has fallen in the pond!”Cried little ’Bijah Brown;“Run, Pious Dan, and help him out,Or else he sure will drown!”“I trust he’ll swim ashore,” said Dan,“But now my soul is awed,And I must meditate uponThe goodness of the Lord;And nothing merely temporal oughtTo interrupt my holy thought.”So Daniel lived a pious life,As Daniel understood,But all his neighbours thought he wasToo pious to be good;And Daniel died, and then his soul,On wings of hope elate,In glad expectancy flew upTo Peter’s golden gate.“Now let your gate wide open fly;Come, hasten, Peter! Here am I.”“I’m sorry, Pious Dan,” said he,“That time will not allow;But you must wait a space, for IMust read my Bible now.”So Daniel waited long and long,And Peter read all day.“Now, Peter, let me in,” he cried.Said Peter, “I must pray;And no mean temporal affairsMust ever interrupt my prayers.”Then Satan, who was passing by,Saw Dan’s poor shivering form,And said, “My man, it’s cold out here;Come down where it is warm.”The angel baby of Jack Bean,The angel ’Rastus Wright,And old Briggs, a white angel, too,All chuckled with delight;And Satan said, “Come, Pious Dan,For you are just my style of man.”Samuel Walter Foss.

THE MEETING OF THE CLABBERHUSES

IHE was the Chairman of the GuildOf Early Pleiocene Patriarchs;He was chief Mentor of the LodgeOf the Oracular Oligarchs;He was the Lord High AutocratAnd Vizier of the Sons of Light,And Sultan and Grand MandarinOf the Millennial Men of Might.He was Grand Totem and High PriestOf the Independent Potentates;Grand Mogul of the GalaxyOf the Illustrious Stay-out-lates;The President of the Dandydudes,The Treasurer of the Sons of Glee;The Leader of the Clubtown BandAnd Architects of Melody.IIShe was Grand Worthy ProphetessOf the Illustrious Maids of Mark;Of Vestals of the Third DegreeShe was Most Potent Matriarch;She was High Priestess of the ShrineOf Clubtown’s Culture Coterie,And First Vice-President of the LeagueOf the Illustrious G. A. B.She was the First Dame of the ClubFor teaching Patagonians Greek,She was Chief Clerk and AuditorOf Clubtown’s Anti-Bachelor Clique;She was High Treasurer of the FundFor Borrioboolaghalians,And the Fund for Sending Browning’s PoemsTo Native-born Australians.IIIOnce to a crowded social fêteBoth these much-titled people came,And each perceived, when introduced,They had the self-same name.Their hostess said, when first they met:“Permit me now to introduceMy good friend Mr. ClabberhuseTo Mrs. Clabberhuse.”“’Tis very strange,” said she to him,“Such an unusual name! —A name so very seldom heard,That we should bear the same.”“Indeed, ’tis wonderful,” said he,“And I’m surprised the more,Because I never heard the nameOutside my home before.“But now I come to look at you,”Said he, “upon my life,If I am not indeed deceived,You are – you are – my wife.”She gazed into his searching face,And seemed to look him through;“Indeed,” said she, “it seems to meYou are my husband, too.“I’ve been so busy with my clubs,And in my various spheres,I have not seen you now,” she said,“For over fourteen years.”“That’s just the way it’s been with me;These clubs demand a sight” —And then they both politely bowed,And sweetly said “Good-night.”Sam Walter Foss.

WEDDED BLISS

“O  COME and be my mate!” said the Eagle to the Hen;“I love to soar, but thenI want my mate to restForever in the nest!”Said the Hen, “I cannot fly,I have no wish to try,But I joy to see my mate careering through the sky!”They wed, and cried, “Ah, this is Love, my own!”And the Hen sat, the Eagle soared, alone.“O come and be my mate!” said the Lion to the Sheep;“My love for you is deep!I slay – a Lion should,But you are mild and good!”Said the Sheep, “I do no ill —Could not, had I the will;But I joy to see my mate pursue, devour, and kill.”They wed, and cried, “Ah, this is Love, my own!”And the Sheep browsed, the Lion prowled, alone.“O come and be my mate!” said the Salmon to the Clam;“You are not wise, but I am.I know sea and stream as well;You know nothing but your shell.”Said the Clam, “I’m slow of motion,But my love is all devotion,And I joy to have my mate traverse lake and stream and ocean!”They wed, and cried, “Ah, this is Love, my own!”And the Clam sucked, the Salmon swam, alone.Charlotte Perkins (Stetson) Gilman.

A CONSERVATIVE

THE garden beds I wandered by,One bright and cheerful morn,When I found a new-fledged butterflyA-sitting on a thorn —A black and crimson butterfly,All doleful and forlorn.I thought that life could have no stingTo infant butterflies,So I gazed on this unhappy thingWith wonder and surprise,While sadly with his waving wingHe wiped his weeping eyes.Said I: “What can the matter be?Why weepest thou so sore,With garden fair and sunlight free,And flowers in goodly store?”But he only turned away from me,And burst into a roar.Cried he: “My legs are thin and few,Where once I had a swarm;Soft, fuzzy fur – a joy to view —Once kept my body warm,Before these flapping wing-things grew,To hamper and deform.”At that outrageous bug I shotThe fury of mine eye;Said I, in scorn all burning hot,In rage and anger high,“You ignominious idiot!Those wings are made to fly.”“I do not want to fly,” said he;“I only want to squirm.”And he dropped his wings dejectedly,But still his voice was firm:“I do not want to be a fly;I want to be a worm.”O yesterday of unknown lack!To-day of unknown bliss!I left my fool in red and black,The last I saw was this —The creature madly climbing backInto his chrysalis.Charlotte Perkins Stetson Gilman.

SAME OLD STORY

HISTORY, and nature, too, repeat themselves, they say;Men are only habit’s slaves; we see it every day.Life has done its best for me – I find it tiresome still;For nothing’s everything at all, and everything is nil.Same old get-up, dress, and tub;Same old breakfast; same old club;Same old feeling; same old blue;Same old story – nothing new!Life consists of paying bills as long as you have health;Woman? She’ll be true to you – as long as you have wealth;Think sometimes of marriage, if the right girl I could strike;But the more I see of girls, the more they are alike.Same old giggles, smiles, and eyes;Same old kisses; same old sighs;Same old chaff you; same adieu;Same old story – nothing new!Go to theatres sometimes to see the latest plays;Same old plots I played with in my happy childhood’s days;Hero, same; same villain; and same heroine in tears,Starving, homeless, in the snow – with diamonds in her ears.Same stern father making “bluffs”;Leading man all teeth and cuffs;Same soubrettes, still twenty-two;Same old story – nothing new!Friend of mine got married; in a year or so, a boy!Father really foolish in his fond paternal joy;Talked about that “kiddy,” and became a dreadful bore —Just as if a baby never had been born before.Same old crying, only more;Same old business, walking floor;Same old “kitchy – coochy – coo!”Same old baby – nothing new!Harry B. Smith.

HEM AND HAW

HEM and Haw were the sons of sin,Created to shally and shirk;Hem lay ’round, and Haw looked on,While God did all the work.Hem was a fogy, and Haw was a prig,For both had the dull, dull mind;And whenever they found a thing to do,They yammered and went it blind.Hem was the father of bigots and bores;As the sands of the sea were they;And Haw was the father of all the tribeWho criticise to-day.But God was an artist from the first,And knew what he was about;While over his shoulder sneered these two,And advised him to rub it out.They prophesied ruin ere man was made:“Such folly must surely fail!”And when he was done, “Do you think, my Lord,He’s better without a tail?”And still in the honest working world,With posture and hint and smirk,These sons of the devil are standing byWhile man does all the work.They balk endeavour and baffle reform,In the sacred name of law;And over the quavering voice of HemIs the droning voice of Haw.Bliss Carman.

THE SCEPTICS

IT was the little leaves beside the road.Said Grass: “What is that soundSo dismally profound,That detonates and desolates the air?”“That is St. Peter’s bell,”Said rain-wise Pimpernel;“He is music to the godly,Though to us he sounds so oddly,And he terrifies the faithful unto prayer.”Then something very like a groanEscaped the naughty little leaves.Said Grass: “And whither trackThese creatures all in black,So woebegone and penitent and meek?”“They’re mortals bound for church,”Said the little Silver Birch;“They hope to get to heaven,And have their sins forgiven,If they talk to God about it once a week.”And something very like a smileRan through the naughty little leaves.Said Grass: “What is that noiseThat startles and destroysOur blessed summer brooding when we’re tired?”“That’s folk a-praising God,”Said the tough old cynic Clod;“They do it every Sunday,They’ll be all right on Monday;It’s just a little habit they’ve acquired.”And laughter spread among the little leaves.Bliss Carman.

THE EVOLUTION OF A “NAME”

WHEN Hill, the poet, first essayedTo push the goose’s quill,Scarce any name at all he made:(’Twas simply “A. H. Hill.”)But as success his efforts crowned,Rewarding greater skill,His name expanded at a bound:(It was “A. Hiller Hill.”)Now that his work, be what it may,Is sure to “fill the bill,”He has a name as wide as day:(“Aquilla Hiller Hill.”)Charles Battell Loomis.

“THE HURT THAT HONOUR FEELS”

SUGGESTED BY THE ATTITUDE OF THE FRENCH PRESS ON THE FASHODA QUESTIONTHAT man is surely in the wrong,And lets his angry passions blind him,Who, when a person comes alongBehind him,And hits him hard upon the cheek(One whom he took to be his brother),Declines to turn and let him tweakThe other.It should be his immediate care,By delicate and tactful dealings,To ease the striker’s pain, and spareHis feelings;Nor should he, for his private ends,Make any personal allusionTending to aggravate his friend’sConfusion.For there are people built this way:They may have scratched your face, or bent it,Yet, if you reason with them, theyResent it!Their honour, quickly rendered sore,Demands that you should suffer mutely,Lest they should feel it even moreAcutely.I knew a man of perfect tact;He caught a burglar once, my man did;He took him in the very act,Red-handed;What kind of language then occurred?How did he comment on the jemmy?Did he employ some brutal wordLike “demme”?Or kick the stranger then and there,Or challenge him to formal battle?Or spring upon the midnight airHis rattle?Certainly not! He knew too much;He knew that, as a bud is blighted,Your burglar’s honour, at a touch,Feels slighted.He saw, as men of taste would see,That others’ pride should be respected;Some people cannot bear to beDetected.Therefore his rising wrath he curbed,Gave him a smile as warm as may be,Thanked him because he’d not disturbedThe baby;Apologized for fear his guestMight deem him casual or surlyFor having rudely gone to bedSo early.The night was still not very old,And, short as was the invitation,Would he not stay and share a coldCollation?So was his tact not found at fault;So was he spared, by tasteful flattery,What might have ended in assaultOr battery.Soft language is the best – how true!This doctrine, which I here rehearse, ’llApply to nations: it is u--niversal!Thus England should not take offenceWhen from behind they jump upon her;She must not hurt their lively senseOf honour.For plain opinions, put in speech,Might lead to blows, which might be bloody,A lesson which the press should teachAnd study!Owen Seaman.

JOHN JENKINS

JOHN JENKINS, in an evil day, felt suddenly inclinedTo perpetrate a novel of an unobtrusive kind;It held no “Strange Adventures” or “Mysterious Events,”To terrify its readers with exciting accidents.“I have never,” said John Jenkins, “in my uneventful life,Taken part in revolutions or in sanguinary strife;My knowledge of historic days is lamentably scant,But the present will afford me the material I want.”In fact, the rash resolve with which this foolish man set out,Was just to deal with matters that he really knew about.He studied all his characters with sympathy sincere;He wrote, rewrote, and laboured at his chapters for a year;He found a trusting publisher – one wonders much at that —For this, his first production, fell quite absolutely flat.The critics were benign indeed: “A harmless little tale,”Was what they mostly called it. “While the reader cannot fail,”Another wrote, “to credit it with fluency and grace,Its fault is that it’s really so extremely commonplace.”A third condemned it roundly as “A simple, shameless sham”(Finding that alliteration often does for epigram).And as John Jenkins wearily perused each fresh review,He shook his head, and cried, “Oh, this will never, never do!”Undaunted by catastrophe, John Jenkins tried again,And wrote his second novel in a very different strain;In one short month he finished what the critic at a glancePronounced a fine example of the latter-day Romance.His characters now figured in that period sublimeWhich, with convenient vagueness, writers call “The Olden Time.”They said “Oddsbobs,” “Grammercy,” and other phrases sweet,Extracted from old English as supplied in Wardour Street.Exciting was their wooing, constant battles did they wage,And some one murdered some one else on every other page;Whereat the critics flung their caps, and one and all agreed,“Hail to the great John Jenkins! This is True Romance indeed!”And so John Jenkins flourishes, and scribbles wondrous fastA string of such “romances,” each exactly like the last;A score of anxious publishers for his assistance seek;His “Illustrated Interview” you meet with every week.Nay, more; when any question, difficult and intricate,Perplexes the intelligence of ministers of State,The country disregards them all, and where they fear to tread,Adventurous John Jenkins rushes boldly in instead,And kindly (in the intervals of literary cares)Instructs a grateful nation how to manage its affairs!So, for all youthful authors who are anxious to succeed,The moral of John Jenkins is – well, he who runs may read.Anthony C. Deane.