THE FAIRY
GODMOTHER-IN-LAW

When Cinderella wed the Prince

She thought him all her Fancy Painted,

And this was not surprising since

They were not very Well Acquainted.

While he, not dreaming where she got

Glass slippers, counted on a Dot.

The Prince was Brave, Industrious, Wise:

Brave in bright Silks and Satins gay,

Wise in the Lore of Ladies’ Eyes,

And most Industrious—at Play;

A Leader, too—in Fashion’s Set;

And Deep—that is to say, in Debt.

Who was the Somebody of Note?

(I never could remember names)

Was it Mark Twain or Mr. Choate

Or Mrs. Ward or Henry James

That penn’d those words of Wise Import,

“Who weds in haste repents—in court”?

But let us not Anticipate.

The Princess wore a Plain Gold Frock;

No Fairy Dress to spoil the fête

By vanishing at Twelve o’clock.

This time no Spell her pleasure blighted—

Her god-mamma was not invited.

Not that she really meant to flout

Her Benefactress; but you see

She had not told the Prince about

Her Fairy Godmother, lest he

Might change his mind if he foresaw

A Fairy God-mamma-in-law.

A Fairy may be Good or Ill,

A Godmother Morose or Gay;

A Mother-in-law, say what you will,

Is not immortal any way.

But wouldn’t it a Bridegroom stun

To think of all three rolled in one?

All day the envelope she scann’d.

But though her royal name it bore,

’Twas in an Unfamiliar Hand.

The Postmark puzzled her still more.

The Princess could not understand

Who’d write to her from——

She turned it Left, she turned it Right,

She pinched it, shook it to and fro,

She held it up against the Light,

And topsy-turvy wise—but no,

It still continued to preserve

Its air of Self-contained Reserve.

One day the Princess in a Pet,

It was her Last, her only hope,

Summoned her Trusty Cabinet,

To Sit upon the Envelope,

And at no matter what expense,

To end her Terrible Suspense.

But all their Learnéd Consultations

Ended in Nought, for what avail

Mere Man’s Unerring Calculations

Where WOMAN’S Intuitions fail?

Their Weighty Brains refused to cope

With that Unyielding Envelope.

She put the matter in the Hands

Of the Police; she went to see

Astrologers from Foreign Lands

And experts in Chirography;

And offered Large Rewards to all

Who furnished Clues, however small.

But no one came for the Reward,

Nor would the Envelope betray

The Secret in its bosom stored,

When by the Merest Chance one day

She overheard a Child, who cried,

“If it were mine, I’d look inside.”

Tossing the Tot a Thousand Pounds,

The Princess to her Chamber sped;

Her Joy and Rapture knew no bounds;

She tore the Envelope and read

A note from god-mamma, to say,

She might expect her any day.

One day as Cinderella ate

Her Simple Lunch of sixteen courses,

A Golden Coach drove up in state,

Drawn by a team of Mouse-Grey horses,

And on the carriage door were scrolled

The Letters F. G. M., in gold.

The Princess dropped a Jelly Roll,

Which tipped with Pink her Crystal Shoe,

And cried, “O my prophetic soul!

My God-mamma! What shall I do?”

Then, Ladylike, she cut the knot

By simply fainting on the spot.

Strong Fairy Salts soon brought her to.

She looked up in a startled way.

“Why, God-mamma—can that be you?

How sweet! I hope you’ve come to stay.

The Prince will simply be enchanted.”

“Your Wish,” quoth God-mamma, “is granted.”

True to her word, the Fairy soon

Was quite at home. The royal Attic

She turned into a Grand Saloon,

Where with her cats she reigned ecstatic.

“Henceforth,” said she, “I’ll live at leisure,

And only work my Spells for pleasure.”

She had a Sense of Humor dry,

She loved her Little Joke—and tho’

None of her Tricks were prompted by

A spiteful heart or love of show,

To love one’s Joke does not, it’s true,

Imply that Others love it too.

She had a disconcerting way,

When Argument became a bore,

Of saying what she had to say

And disappearing through the Floor,

A joke that never failed to cause

A weird, if not side-splitting, Pause.

At meals, if there appeared a dish

God-mamma did not find appealing,

She’d wave her wand, and Fowl or Fish

Would promptly vanish thro’ the ceiling,

And in its place would be Fried Mole

Or Crocodile en casserole.

One day some Ladies of the Court

Performed a Play which bored her so,

She up and cried, “That’s not my sort!”

And changed it to a Ballet show.

A Tactless Joke, which caused, of course,

Much talk—and more than one Divorce.

But nothing gave her such delight,

Or keener Sense of Humor showed,

Than when the Prince came home at night;

She’d change his door-key to a Toad,

And laugh to see it hop about,

Or turn the Key-Hole inside out.

Once, weary of her Pesterings,

The Prince apostrophized a bird,

Exclaiming, “Would I too had wings!”

It chanced the Fairy overheard,

And, with the very best intentions,

Granted him wings of Large Dimensions.

Now wings (as any Naturalist

Will tell you) are but variations

Of arms, and cannot co-exist

With such-like Brachial Formations.

Accordingly, he lost his arms,

Which handicaps a Prince’s charms.

To his embarrassment and woe,

He had to be both dressed and fed

And brushed and bathed and put—but no,

That he was spared. His Wings when spread

Were Forty Feet from side to side;

Bed was a luxury denied.

He soon repented of his Whim.

With wings like windmill sails, of course,

No room was big enough for him.

So all night long, in Chill Remorse,

He perched upon the roof. At dawn

The spell was happily withdrawn.

About this time the Princess planned

A grand Subscription Ball, to aid

The Starving Shepherds of the land.

The Prince, when told the shepherds’ trade

Included Shepherdesses too,

Subscribed a Thumping I. O. U.

Upon the evening of the ball,

It chanced that God-mamma-in-law,

Flitting about the Palace Hall,

Passed by the Prince’s Suite, and saw

His gladsome Evening Robes outspread

In neat array upon the bed.

She eyed them sadly. Here in places

The silken pile was wearing thin;

And here were stains and here were traces

Of where the Moth had broken in.

“Aha! Aha! it’s plain to see

This is a little job for me!

“I’ll make him a new suit,” said she,

“A brave new suit without a flaw.

I’d like to know what Home would be

Without a God-mamma-in-law.”

And in its place upon the bed

A Fairy Substitute she spread.

All unobserved, she slipped away,

Delighted with her Little Game,

And, seeking some new trick to play,

To Cinderella’s closet came.

Where for her golden robe of state

She left a Fairy Duplicate.

Dressed for the ball, they drove in State,

Looking superlatively swell;

God-mamma pleaded mal de tête

And from her window waved farewell.

Her voice rose o’er the people’s cheers,

“Be back at twelve o’clock my dears!”

Before the splendors of the Ball

The Boldest Metaphor grows tame;

Superlatives abjectly crawl

Back to their lexicon in shame,

And Synonyms in shrieking chorus

Take refuge in the deep Thesaurus.

But language has its Pioneers,

Who seek Fresh Words and Postures new,

Slang rushes in where Syntax fears

To tread—so I for Ade halloo,

And say (with George’s kind permission)

It was “A Heated Proposition.”

The Princess never dreamed her frock

Of gold was wrought by fairy power.

And set, like an alarming Clock,

To go off at the midnight hour.

Her childish laugh rang with delight:

“Thank God-mamma’s not here to-night.”

Prince Charming looked his very best

To—I mean at—the Ladies Fair;

No dread foreboding stirred his breast;

No Writing on the Wall was there

To Tell him of the Awful Shock

Awaiting him at Twelve O’clock.

Again (see chapter on The Ball)

The Boldest Metaphor grows tame;

Superlatives abjectly crawl

Back to their lexicon in shame,

And Synonyms in shrieking chorus

Take refuge in the deep Thesaurus.

But every cloud that bars the sun

They say with silverwear is lined;

And tho’ they felt they were Undone,

Their Highnesses were cheered to find

At midnight when their Robes took wings,

They kept their—well, their Other Things.

Even arrayed as one of these,

In Homespun stood the Royal Twain,

While people cried, on bended knees,

“Long live their Majesties! who deign

Thus by example to Restore

Our Woolen Industry of Yore!”

Thro’ all the Land the Tidings sped

From Door to Door, from Wife to Wife,

Thro’ all the Land the Fashion spread

For Woolen and the Simple Life.

New looms sprang up on every hand

And shepherds prospered in the land.

Poor God-mamma, ’twas her last caper;

One night to throw some Light about

She changed herself into a Taper,

And Cinderella blew her out.

The Princess then divorced the Prince,

And Both lived Happy Ever Since.

But since no creature known

Is perfect, I will own

He had one failing—vanity, alas! innate.

He was also fond of sport,

Though not a cruel sort:

His aim was more to charm than to assassinate.

He was often heard to say,

When feeling rather gay,

“I’d like to see the Bird I cannot fascinate!”

It was sitting, stuffed and stiff on

A thing of straw and chiffon,

Ribbands and lace and jet and such like finery,

By a milliner begotten

And some careless maid forgotten,

In stuffed and lonely splendor in the Vinery,

When with expectant eye

Mr. Serpent, by and by,

Strolled forth in search of game from out the Pinery.

“Aha!” said Mr. Snake,

“Unless I much mistake,

Here’s a charming subject for a Trance Hypnotic;

Soon I’ll have her in my toils!”

And with mysterious coils

He advanced with air complacent and despotic.

Then he rose up, and let fly

A glance from out his eye,

And watched for the effect of his narcotic.

Said Mr. Snake, “My spell

Seems to work extremely well.”

And straightway with Majestic Pride he puffed,

But when an hour had pass’d,

And still the Bird stood fast,

I must confess he felt a trifle huff’d.

“There’s something wrong,” said he,

“With the Bird—or else with me.”

How should he know the wretched thing was stuffed?

Mr. Snake was sorely troubled,

And his efforts he redoubled,

And he balanced on the tip end of his tail,

Swaying to and fro the while

Like a pendulum—a style

That hitherto he’d never known to fail.

But not a word she uttered,

And not a feather fluttered

As he plied his mystic Art without avail.

“Confound the bird!” he said,

And he stood upon his head

And waved his long mysterious tail in air,

And he focussed all the rays

Of his esoteric gaze

Into one cold and petrifying glare.

But the Deadly Glance fell wide;

He might as well have tried

To hypnotize a table or a chair—

“That settles it!” he cried.

“I will not be defied!”

And he coiled himself to spring—oh, rash proceeding!

Like an arrow from a bow

He sprang—how should he know

The Doom to which he was so swiftly speeding?

Next moment he lay dead,

With a Hat Pin through his head,

Whereat, with most commendable good-breeding—

The Sun appeared so smug and bright,

One day, that I made bold

To ask him what he did each night

With all his surplus gold.

He flushed uncomfortably red,

And would not meet my eye.

“I travel round the world,” he said,

“And travelling rates are high.”

With frigid glance I pierced him through.

He squirmed and changed his tune.

Said he: “I will be frank with you:

I lend it to the Moon.

“Poor thing! You know she’s growing old

And hasn’t any folk.

She suffers terribly from cold,

And half the time she’s broke.”

That evening on the beach I lay

Behind a lonely dune,

And as she rose above the bay

I buttonholed the Moon.

“Tell me about that gold,” said I.

I saw her features fall.

“You see, it’s useless to deny;

The Sun has told me all.”

“Sir!” she exclaimed, “how can you try

An honest Moon this way?

As for the gold, I put it by

Against a rainy day.”

I smiled and shook my head. “All right,

If you must know,” said she,

“I change it into silver bright

Wherewith to tip the Sea.

“He is so faithful and so good,

A most deserving case;

If he should leave, I fear it would

Be hard to fill his place.”

When asked if they accepted tips,

The waves became so rough;

I thought of those at sea in ships,

And felt I’d said enough.

For if one virtue I have learned,

’Tis tact; so I forbore

To press the matter, though I burned

To ask one question more.

I hate a scene, and do not wish

To be mixed up in gales,

But, oh, I longed to ask the Fish

Whence came their silver scales!

Once in the hazy days of Yore

(I cannot very well be more

Explicit, since it was before

Dates were invented).

Once on a time, as I began

To say, the Lion formed a plan

To undermine the rule of Man,

Which he resented.

In answer to the Lion’s call,

His fellow-creatures, great and small,

From earth and air came one and all

In Trepidation.

He then delivered a discourse,

And proved with eloquence and force

Man was their one and only source

Of Tribulation.

“What is he—taken at his best?

A mere pretence! Not even dressed,

If we his puny form divest

Of spoil he’s looted.

The fact that we can far excel

His boasted Strength and Speed, as well

As Hearing, Sight, and Taste and Smell,

Is undisputed.

“I am not boasting when I own

for Strength I’d back my claws alone

Against his battle-axe of stone;

While, as to Vision,

’Tis nothing more than idle talk

To mention Man beside the Hawk—

The swift Horse, too, his clumsy walk

Views with derision.

“Only Man’s Ignorance, I’m bound

To say, could possibly confound

The Scent and Hearing of the Hound

With his dull powers;

As well his Taste, that gluts on fare

Like half-burnt Antelope and Bear,

With the fastidious Bee compare,

That sips the flowers.

“And yet,” the Lion said, “though we

Outshine Man to the last degree

Collectively, none holds as he

The Combination.”

In short, the moral of his theme

Was this: If Beasts would reign supreme

Their only practicable scheme

Was Federation.

And so, in view of Public Need,

The Hawk, Hound, Bee, and Horse agreed

To pool their Sight, Scent, Taste, and Speed;

And in due season

They made, pro tem., the Lion King,

Intrusting him with everything

Upon condition he would bring

Proud Man to reason.

The crafty Lion then proposed

To send an Embassy composed

Of those same four. As none opposed,

They started straightway,

And, coming to Man’s portals wide,

They entered, but no trace espied

Of Man, until (from the outside)

He closed the gateway.

And there he kept them till they swore

To be his servants evermore,

And work his will, and bow before

His rod of iron:

The Dog to watch, the Hawk to kill,

The Horse to carry and to till,

The Bee with sweets his jars to fill.

All save the Lion—

The Lion stayed at home—and purred,

And kept thenceforth the crown conferred

Pro tem., and nothing more was heard

About Conditions.

So ends my tale. Perchance it brings

Some light to bear on certain things—

Such as the Origin of Kings,

And Politicians.

One time there lived (that is to say,

If half a crust of bread a day

And sleeping on a bed of hay

May so be rated)

A Gentle Youth who tuned his lay

To all the Metres of the day,

But was not, I regret to say,

Appreciated.

In Market-place or Public Way

He read his ode or sang his lay,

As was the custom of the day,

But none suggested

A Laurel Wreath or Crown of Bay:

Instead, one morn, to his dismay,

While spouting forth a Tragic Play,

He was arrested.

In Irons he was led away,

And, by a Justice stern and gray,

For blocking up the Public Way

He was indicted.

Then, since he had nowith to pay

The Fine (a trifle anyway),

To leave the town without delay

He was invited.

There was no choice but to obey—

He left the town at break of day,

Yet still his heart was brave and gay;

Fate could not queer him.

For was it not the month of May,

Were there not flowers beside the way,

And little lambs to sport and play,

And birds to cheer him?

He journeyed on for many a day;

The Peasants gave him Curds and Whey;

For aught I know the Fairies may

Some Food have found him.

At night he slept beneath a Bay

Or Laurel Tree, and, I dare say,

Dreamed he was Laureate, and they

Were twined around him.

Indeed, his only trouble lay

In this, that tho’ his spirits gay

And gentle Heart and winning way

Charmed and delighted

All whom he met, yet, strange to say,

To hear his verses none would stay—

Even the Peasants ran away

When he recited.

But he was not the sort that say,

“Oh, woe is mine—alack-a-day!”

He lived for Hope, and in some way

Was bound to find it.

“What matter! Let them go,” he’d say;

“Each to his taste—henceforth I’ll play

And sing to Birds alone, for they

Don’t seem to mind it.”

And so he journeyed many a day,

Till now at last his darkening way

Lies thro’ a forest dim and gray;

Yet, nothing daunted,

Though hoary branches bar the way,

And twisted roots his steps betray,

And ghostly voices seem to say

The place is haunted.

Singing a Carol blithe and gay,

He presses on, nor does he stay,

Until at last the light of day

His sight surprises.

And now a little winding way

Leads, through a meadow pink with May,

To where, not half a mile away,

A Palace rises.

He wandered on, his thoughts astray,

Framing a little Roundelay

And weaving garlands of the May

(For whom not guessing),

Until before him suddenly

There loomed a gateway grim and gray,

Whose dark doors yielded to the sway

Of his light pressing.

And lo! a garden gleaming, gay

With flowers in dazzling array,

And fountains flashing silver spray,

And bowers shady;

And on an emerald bank there lay

A creature fairer than the day,

Yet sadder than a moonlight ray—

A wondrous lady.

Abashed the Poet turned away,

When a low voice entreated, “Stay!

Read me that little Roundelay

I heard you singing.”

It was as though upon him lay

A spell that forced him to obey,

And he recited it straightway

In voice clear ringing.

A dreamy, languid, far-away

Expression dims her eyes as they,

Like violets at droop of day,

Are closing—closing.

The Poet ends his Roundelay,

And turns to hear what she may say,

And finds to his complete dismay

The Princess dozing.

Then rose a cry: “She sleeps! Hurray!

The Princess sleeps! Oh, joyful day!

The spell is broken—Rise, I pray,

Oh, sweet song-maker.”

’Twas the King spoke, “Arise, I pray:

I make you Laureate this day;

My daughter’s hand, too, by the way,

Is yours—don’t wake her.”

Sibyl. A dream of beauty, half-awake,

In filmy disarray—about to take

Her morning tub. In speech with her the while

Is Robert. He is dressed in riding style.

Sibyl—Why, Bob, it’s you! They got your name all wrong.

I’m sorry that I made you wait so long.

Bob—Only six minutes by my watch—it’s true

A minute seems a year, awaiting you!

But Time is merciful and I rejoice

That I am still alive to hear your voice.

Sibyl—A very pretty speech, for you, indeed.

But what extenuation can you plead

For waking ladies at the break of day

From peaceful slumbers, sir!

Bob— Oh, come, I say!

It’s half past ten!

Sibyl— Well, it was nearly three

Before I got to bed!

Bob— Good gracious me!

I’m sure I’d no idea it was so late.

Why, I was riding in the Park at eight

And looked for you. I own I felt abused;

Last night you said——

Sibyl— I beg to be excused

From keeping foolish promises, when made

At two A.M., by moonlight. I’m afraid

My memory’s no better than a sieve.

So you expected me? The Lord forgive

Your trusting soul!

Bob— It is His métier!

Sibyl—Don’t be outrageous, or I’ll run away.

Bob—Ah, no; don’t go. I will be good, I swear!

’Twas a quotation, Heine, or Voltaire,

Or some fool cynic fellow. By the way,

If you have nothing on, what do you say

To breakfasting with Peg and me at noon

At the Casino?

Sibyl— Well, that’s rather soon;

I can’t be ready for an hour or more.

Bob—Come as you are, you know that I adore

Your ladyship in any sort of gown;

Besides, there’s not another soul in town.

Come as you are; there’ll only be we three.

Sibyl—Well, I like that! It’s fortunate for me

This is a telephone and not that new

Invention one can talk and see through, too!

What’s that you said?

Bob— I didn’t speak at all

I only thought.

Sibyl— Well, don’t! Suppose we call

The breakfast half past one instead of noon?

Bob (joyously)—

Then you will come?

Sibyl— I swear!

Bob— Not by the moon?

Sibyl (laughing)—

No, you may count on me. Now I must fly.

One-thirty—don’t forget—Good-by!

Bob— Good-by!

(They ring off.)

Now whither are you flying

And on what game intent,

Cupid? There’s no denying

On mischief you are bent.

What is the use of trying

To look so innocent?

What means your empty quiver?

Did heart of some coquette

Your golden arrows shiver?

Or did you, boy, upset

Your darts in Lethe’s river,

Or break them in a pet?

What is it you’re concealing,

My patience to annoy?

A heart you have been stealing,

Or some such foolish toy?

Come, now—no double-dealing!

Out with it—Cupid, boy!

“I have,” quoth Cupid, shyly,

“A thing wherewith to hew

Cold hearts” (he hinted slyly

That such a heart I knew).

“’Tis recommended highly—

An ice-pick—what say you?”

Gravely I shake my finger

At Cupid—“’Tis indeed

The very thing to bring her

To reason, boy, so speed!

Fly, Cupid! Do not linger—

Jove grant you may succeed!”

One tyme a Youthe of faire degree

Didde looke upon a Mayde. Ah me,

She was as coye as anye flow’r,

She stole hys harte in thatte sayme how’r.

Alle vainlie he to Love didde calle,

Ye blinde Godde holp hym notte atte alle.

To Bishop Valentine thenne hies

Ye Youthe, ye Damosel likewyse,

Ande each ’gan tell hys tayle of griefe.

Each sayd ye other was ye thiefe.

“Zounds!” cried ye Sainte, “this brawle must cease.

I’ll binde ye bothe to keepe ye peace.”

Whereat ye twain in nowyse loath,

“Pray then wyth one bond binde us bothe.”

Loude laughed ye Sainte, “Perdi! ’Tis done!”

And made ye Youthe and Mayden one.

Lady, anent this suit of mine

In search of precedents, I waded

Through ancient lore, and found this fine

Old Judgment, in a parchment faded.

If you will ponder the last line

And be by wise example aided,

We, too, will make Saint Valentine

Our Judge, and—compromise, as they did.

Here’s to the Bachelor Girl

Who fain her charms would cloister.

She is a precious pearl

That will not leave the oyster.

She is a proud sweet-pea

That scorns to be a vine,

And lean upon a tree

Or round a stick entwine.

“What! lean upon a stick!

Oh, no! I’m not that sort—

I will grow branches thick

And be my own support!”

Beware, O pearl of price,

Lest you be cast to swine;

O proud sweet-pea, think twice

Ere you refuse to twine!

O Bachelor Girl, we drink

Confusion to your plan;

Beware, lest Fate shall link

You to a Spinster Man!

O change, ere ’tis too late,

The choker tall and silly,

The tweeds—the hat we hate,

For something soft and frilly!

Take off the stockings blue,

(We will avert our gaze),

Then will we drink to you

Long life—and happy days!

We’ve drunk to everything we know,

From Lang Syne to The Ladies;

Now, one more Toast before we go—

Mephisto, Prince of Hades!

When sober we are wont, ’tis true,

To bury, not to praise him;

But let us give the De’il his due,

And toast him while we raise him.

For tho’ his company we’re taught

To shun, there’s no denying

Mephisto never yet was caught

Beneath false colors flying.

He wears his coat and plume of red

With candor so unswerving

We must applaud, although ’tis said

He took some points from Irving.

Think of the Stage, think of the Church,

Without their villain ruddy,

If Old Nick left them in the lurch

Without an understudy!

As well “Othello” played without

The Gentleman of Color,

Or “Hamlet” with the Prince left out:

Could anything be duller?

A world from all temptation free

Would sadly lack in flavor;

And what would Untried Virtue be

But Salt without its savor?

To pawn his soul the sinner goes

More than half-way to meet him,

Yet when Mephisto would foreclose

He does his best to cheat him.

In Church to-day we sound his Knell,

To-morrow at a revel

We fall to raising him—and—well,

We treat him like the Devil.

So let us toast our Foe of Foes,

Long may we live to rout him.

Here’s to Mephisto! Goodness knows

What would we do without him.

And, good Mephisto, do not spurn

Our Toast with mocking laughter,

Nor yet the compliment return—

By Toasting us hereafter!

Once on a time when Men were Bold

And Women Fair—to be precise—

A Princess lived whose Hair was Gold

Beyond the Dreams of Avarice;

Beauty she had and Wealth untold,

Besides a Fabulous Amount

Of Jewels rare and Crowns of Gold,

And Suitors more than she could count.

Such Suitors! Tho’ her Fingers Fair

Had been as leaves upon the Trees

They still were far too few to wear

The Rings they offered, on their Knees.

In Coaches, Caravans, and Ships

The Suitors came in Flocks untold,

Happy to kiss her Finger-tips

And beg from her a Lock of Gold.

For tho’ she seemed to Cupid’s Dart

Impervious, and would not share

The smallest atom of her Heart,

She was most lavish with her Hair.

To all who craved the Golden Boon

She gave, until one Night her Maid

Exclaimed, “Alas! Your Highness soon

Will not have Hair enough to braid!”

Next day the Court was in a state,

The usual audience was refused,

A Notice hung upon the Gate—

“The Princess begs to be Excused.”

Daily the Throng of Suitors grew

And clamored madly at the door,

Until at length they formed a queue

Extending for a mile or more.

The Chancellor was in despair.

“Princess, it comes to this,” he said,

“That either you must lose your hair

Or I must surely lose my head!”

The Princess turned away her face.

“Oh, dear,” she cried, “this grieves me sore;

It will be hard to fill your place—

You were a first-rate Chancellor!

“But do not grieve—I have a plan

To keep your head and save my Pride.”

Then to the marble gate she ran,

Unloosed her hair, stepped forth, and cried:

“Brave Suitors, look upon this Gold,

This mint of Curls—lo, I present

A share to each of you—behold

My Notes of Curl—at five per cent!”

A cheer rose from a Thousand Throats;

The panic passed—and months flew by.

The Princess issued Tons of Notes,

When lo!—a Bolt from out the Sky—

A message came, brought by a Churl:

“Pont Morgan, Sultan of Peru,

Has bought up all your Notes of Curl,

And all your Notes are falling Due!”

The Princess grew distraught with fears

By Day. At night she tossed in Bed,

Dreaming an Awful Pair of Shears

Hung by a Hair above her Head.

At last the Fatal Morning came,

And with it came Pont Morgan, too,

With Awful Shears to press his claim,

And an Enormous Retinue.

“The Law is Just!” the People cried;

“And She the Penalty must pay!”

The Shears their Awful Jaws spread wide,

When suddenly a Voice cried, “Stay!”

An Unknown Damsel, Pale and Proud,

And clad in Silken Cap and Gown,

Strode swiftly through the gaping crowd,

And struck the Awful Scissors down.

“Beware!” she cried, “Proud Sultan, ere

You touch a Hair of that Fair Head;

For know you not that Every Hair

Is numbered—as the Prophet said?

“Show me the Notes—see, here is writ

A number plain across each Bond,

And you may only draw for it

The numbered Hair to correspond.

“So pause, Pont Morgan, ere you draw

A Single Hair from that Gold Head;

If it be wrong—then by the Law

Your Life and Lands are forfeited!”

“Hurray! Hurray! The Maid is Right!”

The People cried with mad uproar.

The Sultan turned a deadly white,

And fell in Fits upon the Floor.

“O Lady, whosoe’er you be,

Claim what you will in all my Land!”

The Princess cried. “I am,” said he,

“Not Maid, but Man—I claim your Hand.”

“’Tis yours! Right gladly will I be

Your Bride—for in Creation’s Plan

I never dreamed to find,” said she,

“A Portia’s Logic in a Man!”

It comes! The monster rearing high,

Against the lurid western sky,

Its horrid, hissing Hydrant Heads,

While o’er the shuddering land it sheds

A dreary pall of waste and woe

And chilling streams of H₂O.

Now saints defend us, one and all,

And most especially Saint Paul,

Thou patron saint of Honest Fighting

And Common Sense and Letterwriting,

Who one time, for his “stomach’s sake,”

Bade Timothy the wine cup take;

Stay now this Water Fiend’s advance

And save thy servant Temperance,

Ere Abstinence, that glum wet-nurse

Of Dire Dyspepsia, Chills, and worse,

Blow out the Lights of Love and Mirth,

And so asphyxiate the Earth.

You boast no “Tree,”

No painted shell your Natal Cell,

Your Pedigree,

Neatly displayed, reads simply, “Made

In Germany.”

What do I care

Tho’ to fresh seed you pay no heed—

Since on Plain Air

You gayly feast? Of that at least

I have to spare.

You do not pour

From your wide bill a gladsome trill,

Thanks be, therefore!

The best of tune, repeated, soon

Becomes a bore!

You simply stare

When I exclaim “Wilhelm” (your name);

You do not care

For William Hohenzollern, tho’

His name you bear.

What would you say

If William the Unsilent, he

Should come your way?

And fume, and pout, and storm—and shout,

“Lèse-Majesté!”

’Twould vex his pride

To see you hold that Gift of Gold

To him denied—

“Silence,” the sole and only rôle

He has not tried.

Fear not his grim,

Imperial ire; no torture dire,

No dungeon dim,

Your fate shall be: This land is free—

At least from him.

Wee saffron sage,

Pipe all day long your silent song

While by your cage,

Musing, I let my soul forget

The Noisy Age.

Now o’er the figures dark I see

A hand which moves relentlessly,

Remorseless, black.

The hand of Time—and through me flit

The Solemn words by Omar writ,

“Not all your piety nor wit

Can lure it back.”

She sighs, she stirs, her lids unclose

Like petals of a pearly rose

After the rain.

And as she notes, with startled eye,

The Station Clock, I hear her cry,

“It’s twenty minutes past—oh, my!

I’ve missed my train.”