When the sirup's on the flapjack and the coffee's in the pot; When the fly is in the b.u.t.ter--where he'd rather be than not; When the cloth is on the table, and the plates are on the cloth; When the salt is in the shaker and the chicken's in the broth; When the cream is in the pitcher and the pitcher's on the tray, And the tray is on the sideboard when it isn't on the way; When the rind is on the bacon and likewise upon the cheese, Then I somehow feel inspired to do a string of rimes like these.

BREAD PUDDYNGE

When good King Arthur ruled our land He was a goodly king, And his idea of what to eat Was a good bag puddynge.

The bag puddynge he had in mind Was thickly strewn with plums, With alternating lumps of fat As big as my two thumbs.

"My love," quoth he to Guinevere, "We have a joust to-day-- Sir Launce is here, Sir Tris, Sir Gal, And all the brave array.

"Put everything across to-night In guise of goodly fare, And cook us up a bag puddynge That will y-curl our hair."

"I'll curl your hair," said Guinevere, "As tight as tight can be; I'll cook you up a bag puddynge From my new recipee."

"Pitch in and eat, my merry men!"

That night the King did say; "But save a little room--a bag Puddynge is on the way.

"Ho! here it comes! Now, by my sword, A famous feast 'twill be.

Queen Guinevere hath cooked it, Launce, From her own recipee."

"Odslife!" cried Launce, "if there is aught I love 'tis this same thing."

And he and all the knights did fall Upon that bag puddynge.

One taste, and every holy knight Sat speechless for a s.p.a.ce, While disappointment and disgust Were writ in every face.

"Odsbodikins!" Sir Tristram cried, "In all my days, by Jing!

I ne'er did taste so flat a mess As this here bag puddynge."

"Odswhiskers, Arthur!" cried Sir Launce, Whose license knew no bounds, "I would to G.o.dde I had this stuff To poultice up my wounds."

King Arthur spat his mouthful out, And sent for Guinevere.

"What is this frightful mess?" he roared.

"Is this a joke, my dear?"

"Oh, ain't it good?" asked Guinevere, Her face a rosy red.

"I thought 'twould make an awful hit: _I made it out of bread!_"

When good King Arthur ruled our land He was a goodly king, And only once in all his reign Was made a Bread Puddynge.

MUSCA DOMESTICA

Baby bye, here's a fly, We will watch him, you and I; Lest he fall in Baby's mouth, Bringing germs from north and south.

In the world of things a-wing There is not a nastier thing Than this pesky little fly;-- So we'll watch him, you and I.

See him crawl up the wall, And he'll never, never fall; Save that, poisoned, he may drop In the soup or on the chop.

Let us coax the cunning brute To the tempting Tanglefoot, Or invite his thirsty soul To the poison-paper bowl.

I believe with six such legs You or I could walk on eggs; But he'd rather crawl on meat With his microbe-laden feet.

Eggs would hardly do as well-- He could not get through the sh.e.l.l; Better far, to spread disease, Vegetables, meat, or cheese.

There he goes, on his toes, Tickling, tickling Baby's nose.

Heaven knows where he has been, And what filth he's wallowed in.

Drat the nasty little wretch!

He's the deuce and all to ketch.

Ah! He's settled on the wall.

Now the thunderbolt shall fall!

Baby bye, see that fly?

We will swat him, you and I.

THE Pa.s.sIONATE PROFESSOR

"_But bending low, I whisper only this:_ _'Love, it is night.'_"

--HARRY THURSTON PECK.

Love, it is night. The orb of day Has gone to hit the cosmic hay.

Nocturnal voices now we hear.

Come, heart's delight, the hour is near When Pa.s.sion's mandate we obey.

I would not, sweet, the fact convey In any crude and obvious way: I merely whisper in your ear-- "Love, it is night!"

Candor compels me, pet, to say That years my fading charms betray.

Tho' Love be blind, I grant it's clear I'm no Apollo Belvedere.

But after dark all cats are gray.

Love, it is night!

A BALLADE OF WOOL-GATHERING

Now is my season of unrest, Now calls the forest, day and night; And by its pleasant spell obsessed, My wits go soaring like a kite.

Forgive me if I be not bright, And pardon if I seem distrait; Wood-fancies put my wits to flight;-- The woods are but a week away.