The skies they were ashen and sober, The streets they were dirty and drear; It was night in the month of October, Of my most immemorial year; Like the skies I was perfectly sober, As I stopped at the mansion of Shear,-- At the "Nightingale,"--perfectly sober, And the willowy woodland, down here.

Here once in an alley t.i.tanic Of Ten-pins,--I roamed with my soul,-- Of Ten-pins,--with Mary, my soul; They were days when my heart was volcanic, And impelled me to frequently roll, And made me resistlessly roll, Till my ten-strikes created a panic In the realms of the Boreal pole, Till my ten-strikes created a panic With the monkey atop of his pole.

I repeat, I was perfectly sober, But my thoughts they were palsied and sear,-- My thoughts were decidedly queer; For I knew not the month was October, And I marked not the night of the year; I forgot that sweet _morceau_ of Auber That the band oft performed down here; And I mixed the sweet music of Auber With the Nightingale's music by Shear.

And now as the night was senescent, And star-dials pointed to morn, And car-drivers hinted of morn, At the end of the path a liquescent And bibulous l.u.s.tre was born: 'Twas made by the bar-keeper present, Who mixed a duplicate horn,-- His two hands describing a crescent Distinct with a duplicate horn.

And I said: "This looks perfectly regal; For it's warm, and I know I feel dry,-- I am confident that I feel dry.

We have come past the emeu and eagle, And watched the gay monkey on high; Let us drink to the emeu and eagle,-- To the swan and the monkey on high-- To the eagle and monkey on high; For this bar-keeper will not inveigle,-- Bully boy with the vitreous eye; He surely would never inveigle,-- Sweet youth with the crystalline eye."

But Mary, uplifting her finger, Said, "Sadly this bar I mistrust,-- I fear that this bar does not trust.

Oh, hasten! oh, let us not linger!

Oh, fly!--let us fly--ere we must!"

In terror she cried, letting sink her Parasol till it trailed in the dust,-- In agony sobbed, letting sink her Parasol till it trailed in the dust,-- Till it sorrowfully trailed in the dust.

Then I pacified Mary, and kissed her, And tempted her into the room, And conquer'd her scruples and gloom; And we pa.s.sed to the end of the vista, But were stopped by the warning of doom-- By some words that were warning of doom.

And I said, "What is written, sweet sister, At the opposite end of the room?"

She sobbed, as she answered, "All liquors Must be paid for ere leaving the room."

Then my heart it grew ashen and sober, As the streets were deserted and drear-- For my pockets were empty and drear; And I cried, "It was surely October, On this very night of last year, That I journeyed--I journeyed down here-- That I brought a fair maiden down here, On this night of all nights in the year.

Ah! to me that inscription is clear: Well I know now I'm perfectly sober, Why no longer they credit me here,-- Well I know now that music of Auber, And this Nightingale, kept by one Shear."

_Bret Harte._

A BALLAD

IN THE MANNER OF R-DY-RD K-PL-NG

As I was walkin' the jungle round, a-killin' of tigers an' time; I seed a kind of an author man a writin' a rousin' rhyme; 'E was writin' a mile a minute an' more, an' I sez to 'im, "'Oo are you?"

Sez 'e, "I'm a poet--'er majesty's poet--soldier an' sailor, too!"

An 'is poem began in Ispahan an' ended in Kalamazoo, It 'ad army in it, an' navy in it, an' jungle sprinkled through, For 'e was a poet--'er majesty's poet--soldier an' sailor, too!

An' after, I met 'im all over the world, a doin' of things a host; 'E 'ad one foot planted in Burmah, an' one on the Gloucester coast; 'Es 'alf a sailor an' 'alf a whaler, 'e's captain, cook and crew, But most a poet--'er majesty's poet--soldier an' sailor too!

'E's often Scot an' 'e's often not, but 'is work is never through For 'e laughs at blame, an' 'e writes for fame, an' a bit for revenoo,-- Bein' a poet--'er majesty's poet--soldier an' sailor too!

'E'll take you up to the Artic zone, 'e'll take you down to the Nile, 'E'll give you a barrack ballad in the Tommy Atkins style, Or 'e'll sing you a Dipsy Chantey, as the bloomin' bo'suns do, For 'e is a poet--'er majesty's poet--soldier an' sailor too.

An' there isn't no room for others, an' there's nothin' left to do; 'E 'as sailed the main from the 'Orn to Spain, 'e 'as tramped the jungle through, An' written up all there is to write--soldier an' sailor, too!

There are manners an' manners of writin', but 'is is the _proper_ way, An' it ain't so hard to be a bard if you'll imitate Rudyard K.; But sea an' sh.o.r.e an' peace an' war, an' everything else in view-- 'E 'as gobbled the lot!--'er majesty's poet--soldier an' sailor, too.

'E's not content with 'is Indian 'ome, 'e's looking for regions new, In another year 'e'll ave swept 'em clear, an' what'll the rest of us do?

'_E's crowdin' us out!_--'er majesty's poet--soldier an' sailor too!

_Guy Wetmore Carryl._

THE TRANSLATED WAY

Being a lyric translation of Heine's "Du bist wie eine Blume," as it is usually done.

Thou art like unto a Flower, So pure and clean thou art; I view thee and much sadness Steals to me in the heart.

To me it seems my Hands I Should now impose on your Head, praying G.o.d to keep you So fine and clean and pure.

_Franklin P. Adams._

COMMONPLACES

Rain on the face of the sea, Rain on the sodden land, And the window-pane is blurred with rain As I watch it, pen in hand.

Mist on the face of the sea, Mist on the sodden land, Filling the vales as daylight fails, And blotting the desolate sand.

Voices from out of the mist, Calling to one another: "Hath love an end, thou more than friend, Thou dearer than ever brother?"

Voices from out of the mist, Calling and pa.s.sing away; But I cannot speak, for my voice is weak, And ... this is the end of my lay.

_Rudyard Kipling._

ANGELO ORDERS HIS DINNER

I, Angelo, obese, black-garmented, Respectable, much in demand, well fed With mine own larder's dainties, where, indeed, Such cakes of myrrh or fine alyssum seed, Thin as a mallow-leaf, embrowned o' the top.

Which, cracking, lets the ropy, trickling drop Of sweetness touch your tongue, or potted nests Which my recondite recipe invests With cold conglomerate tidbits--ah, the bill!

(You say), but given it were mine to fill My chests, the case so put were yours, we'll say (This counter, here, your post, as mine to-day), And you've an eye to luxuries, what harm In smoothing down your palate with the charm Yourself concocted? There we issue take; And see! as thus across the rim I break This puffy paunch of glazed embroidered cake, So breaks, through use, the l.u.s.t of watering chaps And craveth plainness: do I so? Perhaps; But that's my secret. Find me such a man As Lippo yonder, built upon the plan Of heavy storage, double-navelled, fat From his own giblet's oils, an Ararat Uplift o'er water, sucking rosy draughts From Noah's vineyard,--crisp, enticing wafts Yon kitchen now emits, which to your sense Somewhat abate the fear of old events, Qualms to the stomach,--I, you see, am slow Unnecessary duties to forego,-- You understand? A venison haunch, _haul gout_.

Ducks that in Cimbrian olives mildly stew.

And sprigs of anise, might one's teeth provoke To taste, and so we wear the complex yoke Just as it suits,--my liking, I confess, More to receive, and to partake no less, Still more obese, while through thick adipose Sensation shoots, from testing tongue to toes Far off, dim-conscious, at the body's verge, Where the froth-whispers of its waves emerge On the untasting sand. Stay, now! a seat Is bare: I, Angelo, will sit and eat.

_Bayard Taylor._

THE PROMISSORY NOTE