"But since to speak I'm hurried,"

Added this page, quite flurried, "Malbrouck is dead and buried!"

(And here he shed a tear.)

"He's dead! he's dead as a herring!

For I beheld his 'berring,'

And four officers transferring His corpse away from the field.

"One officer carried his sabre, And he carried it not without labour, Much envying his next neighbour, Who only bore a shield.

"The third was helmet-bearer-- That helmet which on its wearer Filled all who saw with terror, And covered a hero's brains.

"Now, having got so far, I Find that (by the Lord Harry!) The fourth is left nothing to carry; So there the thing remains."

Translated by _Father Prout._

MARK TWAIN: A PIPE DREAM

Well I recall how first I met Mark Twain--an infant barely three Rolling a tiny cigarette While cooing on his nurse's knee.

Since then in every sort of place I've met with Mark and heard him joke, Yet how can I describe his face?

I never saw it for the smoke.

At school he won a _smokership_, At Harvard College (Cambridge, Ma.s.s.) His name was soon on every lip, They made him "smoker" of his cla.s.s.

Who will forget his smoking bout With Mount Vesuvius--our cheers-- When Mount Vesuvius went out And didn't smoke again for years?

The news was flashed to England's King, Who begged Mark Twain to come and stay, Offered him dukedoms--anything To smoke the London fog away.

But Mark was firm. "I bow," said he, "To no imperial command, No ducal coronet for me, My smoke is for my native land!"

For Mark there waits a brighter crown!

When Peter comes his card to read-- He'll take the sign "No Smoking" down, Then Heaven will be Heaven indeed.

_Oliver Herford._

FROM A FULL HEART

In days of peace my fellow-men Rightly regarded me as more like A Bishop than a Major-Gen., And nothing since has made me warlike; But when this age-long struggle ends And I have seen the Allies dish up The goose of Hindenburg--oh, friends!

I shall out-bish the mildest Bishop.

_When the War is over and the Kaiser's out of print I'm going to buy some tortoises and watch the beggars sprint; When the War is over and the sword at last we sheathe I'm going to keep a jelly-fish and listen to it breathe._

I never really longed for gore, And any taste for red corpuscles That lingered with me left before The German troops had entered Brussels.

In early days the Colonel's "'Shun!"

Froze me; and as the war grew older The noise of some one else's gun Left me considerably colder.

_When the War is over and the battle has been won I'm going to buy a barnacle and take it for a run; When the War is over and the German fleet we sink I'm going to keep a silkworm's egg and listen to it think._

The Captains and the Kings depart-- It may be so, but not lieutenants; Dawn after weary dawn I start The never ending round of penance; One rock amid the welter stands On which my gaze is fixed intently: An after-life in quiet lands Lived very lazily and gently.

_When the War is over and we've done the Belgians proud I'm going to keep a chrysalis and read to it aloud; When the War is over and we've finished up the show I'm going to plant a lemon pip and listen to it grow_.

Oh, I'm tired of the noise and turmoil of battle, And I'm even upset by the lowing of cattle, And the clang of the bluebells is death to my liver, And the roar of the dandelion gives me a shiver, And a glacier, in movement, is much too exciting, And I'm nervous, when standing on one, of alighting-- Give me Peace; that is all, that is all that I seek....

Say, starting on Sat.u.r.day week.

_A. A. Milne._

THE ULTIMATE JOY

I have felt the thrill of pa.s.sion in the poet's mystic book And I've lingered in delight to catch the rhythm of the brook; I've felt the ecstasy that comes when prima donnas reach For upper C and hold it in a long, melodious screech.

And yet the charm of all these blissful memories fades away As I think upon the fortune that befell the other day, As I bring to recollection, with a joyous, wistful sigh, That I woke and felt the need of extra covers in July.

Oh, eerie hour of drowsiness--'twas like a fairy spell, That respite from the terrors we have known, alas, so well, The malevolent mosquito, with a limp and idle bill, Hung supinely from the ceiling, all exhausted by his chill.

And the early morning sunbeam lost his customary leer And brought a gracious greeting and a prophecy of cheer; A generous affability reached up from earth to sky, When I woke and felt the need of extra covers in July.

In every life there comes a time of happiness supreme, When joy becomes reality and not a glittering dream.

'Tis less appreciated, but it's worth a great deal more Than tides which taken at their flood lead on to fortune's sh.o.r.e.

How vain is Art's illusion, and how potent Nature's sway When once in kindly mood she deigns to waft our woes away!

And the memory will cheer me, though all other pleasures fly, Of how I woke and needed extra covers in July.

_Unknown._

OLD FASHIONED FUN

When that old joke was new, It was not hard to joke, And puns we now pooh-pooh, Great laughter would provoke.

True wit was seldom heard, And humor shown by few, When reign'd King George the Third, And that old joke was new.

It pa.s.sed indeed for wit, Did this achievement rare, When down your friend would sit, To steal away his chair.

You brought him to the floor, You bruised him black and blue, And this would cause a roar, When your old joke was new.

_W. M. Thackeray._