The only thing that's better-- You'll think me quite a dunce-- Would be to have diplopia, Then I'd see two at once.

Wisdom

Napoleon was a wise old guy; A saying of his ran Like this: "To all who would be safe, Don't write, just send a man!"

Just Talk

_Following the Intermission the Jumbler unravels the difference between speech and talk and think and thought._

From time an infant draws first breath And 'gins its virgin squaking, Each mother proud, not saving one, Translates all goos as talking.

This goo means this, a girr means that-- A new word every minute-- It yells! Says pa, "My dear, you're right, There's surely something in it." (A pin, perhaps).

Milk-Latin talk lasts 'bout a year, And then, strict truth I'm telling, A plain "Mam-ma" may strike your ear-- In interim of yelling.

The next few years great strides are made; Mamma is fair ecstatic, For now it talks as good as dad-- 'Cept 'course, it's not grammatic.

And then comes slang, and cussing, too-- If it's a boy, the latter-- But if a girl, the whole day through It's giggle, chatter, chatter.

And now it's grown, and still it talks!

But will somebody answer: How much is said that tends to help Despondent fellow-man, sir?

And words of comfort, love and cheer Are all not slow in giving?

Yet it's the joy we scatter here That makes our lives worth living.

From birth till death it's talk, talk, talk!

But listen, please, and ponder: What would it mean if speech meant thought?

Who would be dumb, I wonder?

[Ill.u.s.tration]

The Man Who Made Umph-ta-ta Smile

_If to Heaven you would go--Smile._

A G.o.d once was made and heathen had prayed To him throughout many a year; His face was distort with a frown of the sort That gave them all quakings of fear.

The rulers in line, of whom there'd been nine, Each published this royal decree: _The man who'll beguile our fierce G.o.d to smile May claim the King's crown as his fee_.

From all the world o'er had come by the score The jester, the fool and the clown; With quip and with jest had each tried his best, Yet not one displaced the G.o.d's frown.

Joe Miller and Twain had been quoted in vain, (Each man as he failed was exiled.) But failures all scored, the G.o.d still looked bored, Then I appeared--and he smiled!

When his visage had cleared, the heathen all cheered And each wore a smile good to see; With shouting and song they bore me along Till straight to the King they'd brought me.

The King then stepped down, said "Sir, here's my crown, And gold you shall have by the pile, But tell me, I pray, just what did you say That made our G.o.d, Umph-ta-ta, smile?"

"Your crown and your pelf, Sire, keep for yourself,"

I said, "but pray listen to me: I just made the trial--_a smile for a smile_-- And succeeded, Good King, as you see.

Of pomp, n.o.ble Sire, and of power I should tire, And soon think them not worth my while, Contented I'll be if 't can be said of me: 'He's the man who makes everyone smile'.

"Pray heed me, O King, a smile, Sire is the thing That will win you a smile in return; Just try it and see, and I'm sure you'll agree 'Tis a thing that all people should learn.

Your wise pulpiteers may belabor your ears With all the orthodox doctrines extant, But if t' Heaven you'd go, then you might as well know 'Nless you smile throughout life--well, you _can't_!

_There's nothing worth while can't be won with a smile_-- A maxim you prove when you try-- I must now be gone to pa.s.s the word on; There're others who need it. Good-bye!"

My story you've heard--well, then, just one word:-- Is anyone now within sight?

Just smile on him, do--why, _he's smiling at you_!

Your very first test proves I'm right.

Myself and Me

_Unlike George Cohan, the Jumbler doesn't love himself._

'Tis torrid here and all have gone To seash.o.r.e on a trot; I'm left alone, alas! and I'm The only friend I've got.

I've walked with me and talked with me Until I'm satiate; I'm sick and tired and bored with me; The thought of me I hate.

Divorce I'd have 'tween self and me; For happiness I'd strike; We're surely incompatible 'Cause too darned much alike.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

C'est la Guerre

_After throwing his friends into fits, the Jumbler decides his Soldier-French won't go._

There are some folks, alas! I know Who Fletcherize the calico And pull out wads of hair When now and then, as if by chance, I lapse into the speech of France.

But--blame it on _la guerre_.

My accent's not Parisian, yet It's _tres bien_, so said Lizette-- And surely she should know.