"MAN WANTS BUT LITTLE HERE BELOW"

Little I ask; my wants are few; I only wish a hut of stone (A very plain brone stone will do) That I may call my own; And close at hand is such a one, In yonder street that fronts the sun.

Plain food is quite enough for me; Three courses are as good as ten; If Nature can subsist on three, Thank Heaven for three--Amen!

I always thought cold victual nice-- My choice would be vanilla-ice.

I care not much for gold or land; Give me a mortgage here and there, Some good bank-stock, some note of hand, Or trifling railroad share.

I only ask that Fortune send A little more than I shall spend.

Jewels are baubles; 'tis a sin To care for such unfruitful things; One good-sized diamond in a pin, Some, _not so large_, in rings.

A ruby, and a pearl, or so, Will do for me--I laugh at show.

My dame should dress in cheap attire (Good, heavy silks are never dear); I own perhaps I _might_ desire Some shawls of true Cashmere-- Some marrowy c.r.a.pes of China silk, Like wrinkled skins on scalded milk.

I would not have the horse I drive So fast that folks must stop and stare; An easy gait--two, forty-five-- Suits me; I do not care; Perhaps, for just a _single spurt_, Some seconds less would do no hurt.

Of pictures, I should like to own t.i.tians and Raphaels three or four-- I love so much their style and tone-- One Turner, and no more.

(A landscape, foreground golden dirt, The sunshine painted with a squirt).

Of books but few--some fifty score For daily use, and bound for wear; The rest upon an upper floor; Some _little_ luxury _there_ Of red morocco's gilded gleam, And vellum rich as country cream.

Busts, cameos, gems--such things as these, Which others often show for pride, _I_ value for their power to please, And selfish churls deride; _One_ Stradivarius, I confess, _Two_ Meerschaums, I would fain possess.

Wealth's wasteful tricks I will not learn, Nor ape the glittering upstart fool; Shall not carved tables serve my turn, But _all_ must be of buhl?

Give grasping pomp its double share-- I ask but _one_ rec.u.mbent chair.

Thus humble let me live and die, Nor long for Midas' golden touch; If Heaven more generous gifts deny, I shall not miss them _much_-- Too grateful for the blessing lent Of simple tastes and mind content!

_Oliver Wendell Holmes._

A BOSTON LULLABY

Baby's brain is tired of thinking On the Wherefore and the Whence; Baby's precious eyes are blinking With incipient somnolence.

Little hands are weary turning Heavy leaves of lexicon; Little nose is fretted learning How to keep its gla.s.ses on.

Baby knows the laws of nature Are beneficent and wise; His medulla oblongata Bids my darling close his eyes.

And his pneumogastrics tell him Quietude is always best When his little cerebellum Needs recuperative rest.

Baby must have relaxation, Let the world go wrong or right.

Sleep, my darling--leave Creation To its chances for the night.

_James Jeffrey Roche._

A GRAIN OF SALT

Of all the wimming doubly blest The sailor's wife's the happiest, For all she does is stay to home And knit and darn--and let 'im roam.

Of all the husbands on the earth The sailor has the finest berth, For in 'is cabin he can sit And sail and sail--and let 'er knit.

_Wallace Irwin._

SONG

Why should you swear I am forsworn, Since thine I vowed to be?

Lady, it is already morn, And 'twas last night I swore to thee That fond impossibility.

Have I not loved thee much and long, A tedious twelve hours' s.p.a.ce?

I must all other beauties wrong, And rob thee of a new embrace, Could I still dote upon thy face.

Not but all joy in thy brown hair By others may be found; But I must search the black and fair, Like skilful mineralists that sound For treasure in unploughed-up ground.

Then, if when I have loved my round, Thou prov'st the pleasant she; With spoils of meaner beauties crowned I laden will return to thee, Even sated with variety.

_Richard Lovelace._

A PHILOSOPHER

Zack b.u.mstead useter flosserfize About the ocean an' the skies; An' gab an' gas f'um morn till noon About the other side the moon; An' 'bout the natur of the place Ten miles beyend the end of s.p.a.ce.

An' if his wife she'd ask the crank Ef he wouldn't kinder try to yank Hisself out-doors an' git some wood To 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' flosserfize About the natur an' the size Of 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 lout Ef he wouldn't kinder waltz about An' 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 tough To borry cash fer fencin'-stuff; An' if 'twere best to take his wealth An' go to Europe for his health, Or save his cash till he'd enough To buy some more of fencin'-stuff; Then, ef his wife she'd ask the gump Ef he wouldn't kinder try to hump Hisself 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 G.o.d made this earthly ball Jest simply out er nawthin' 'tall, An' 'bout the natur, shape, an' form Of nawthin' that he made it from.

Then, ef his wife sh'd ask the freak Ef he wouldn't kinder try to sneak Out 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."