Read Ebook: Something Else Again by Adams Franklin P Franklin Pierce

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Ebook has 337 lines and 15501 words, and 7 pages

ing, And your steering gear will hold it fast and true; Every atom of the car will be responsive to your bidding, AND those thousand claws are mileage insurance, too-- Oh, indubitably, Those thousand claws are mileage insurance, too.

If the Advertising Man Had Been Praed, or Locker

"C'est distingue," says Madame La Mode, 'Tis a fabric of subtle distinction. For street wear it is superb. The chic of the Rue de la Paix-- The style of Fifth Avenue-- The character of Regent Street-- All are expressed in this new fabric creation. Leather-like but feather-light-- It drapes and folds and distends to perfection. And it may be had in dull or glazed, Plain or grained, basket weave or moir?d surfaces!

"C'est distingue," says Madame La Mode. Subtly distinctive as a fabric fair; Nor Keats nor Shelley in his loftiest ode Could thrum the line to tell how it will wear.

The flair, the chic that is Rue de la Paix, The style that is Fifth Avenue, New York. The character of Regent Street in May-- As leather strong, yet light as any cork.

All these for her in this fair fabric clad. In surface dull or glazed it may be had-- In plain or grained, moir?d or basket weave.

Georgie Porgie

BY MOTHER GOOSE AND OUR OWN SARA TEASDALE

Bennie's kisses left me cold, Eddie's made me yearn to die, Jimmie's made me laugh aloud,-- But Georgie's made me cry.

Bennie sees me every night, Eddie sees me every day, Jimmie sees me all the time,-- But Georgie stays away.

On First Looking into Bee Palmer's Shoulders

WITH BOWS TO KEATS AND KEITH'S

"Bee" Palmer has taken the raw, human--all too human--stuff of the underworld, with its sighs of sadness and regret, its mad merriment, its swift blaze of passion, its turbulent dances, its outlaw music, its songs of the social bandit, and made a new art product of the theatre. She is to the sources of jazz and the blues what Fran?ois Villon was to the wild life of Paris. Both have found exquisite blossoms of art in the sector of life most removed from the concert room and the boudoir, and their harvest has the vigour, the resolute life, the stimulating quality, the indelible impress of daredevil, care-free, do-as-you-please lives of the picturesque men and women who defy convention.--From Keith's Press Agent.

Much have I travell'd in the realms of jazz, And many goodly arms and shoulders seen Quiver and quake--if you know what I mean; I've seen a lot, as everybody has. Some plaudits got, while others got the razz. But when I saw Bee Palmer, shimmy queen, I shook--in sympathy--my troubled bean, And said, "This is the utter razmataz."

Then felt I like some patient with a pain When a new surgeon swims into his ken, Or like stout Brodie, when, with reeling brain, He jumped into the river. There and then I subwayed up and took the morning train To Norwalk, Naugatuck, and Darien.

To a Vers Librist

"Oh bard," I said, "your verse is free; The shackles that encumber me, The fetters that are my obsession, Are never gyves to your expression.

"The fear of falsities in rhyme, In metre, quantity, or time, Is never yours; you sing along Your unpremeditated song."

"Correct," the young vers librist said. "Whatever pops into my head I write, and have but one small fetter: I start each line with a capital letter.

Of rhyme I am so reverential He made me feel inconsequential. I shed some strongly saline tears For bards I loved in younger years.

"If Keats had fallen for your fluff," I said, "he might have done good stuff. If Burns had thrown his rhymes away, His songs might still be sung to-day."

How Do You Tackle Your Work?

How do you tackle your work each day? Are you scared of the job you find? Do you grapple the task that comes your way With a confident, easy mind? Do you stand right up to the work ahead Or fearfully pause to view it? Do you start to toil with a sense of dread? Or feel that you're going to do it?

You can do as much as you think you can, But you'll never accomplish more; If you're afraid of yourself, young man, There's little for you in store. For failure comes from the inside first, It's there if we only knew it, And you can win, though you face the worst, If you feel that you're going to do it.

Success! It's found in the soul of you, And not in the realm of luck! The world will furnish the work to do, But you must provide the pluck. You can do whatever you think you can, It's all in the way you view it. It's all in the start that you make, young man: You must feel that you're going to do it.

--From "A Heap o' Livin'," by Edgar A. Guest

I tackle my terrible job each day With a fear that is well defined; And I grapple the task that comes my way With no confidence in my mind. I try to evade the work ahead, As I fearfully pause to view it, And I start to toil with a sense of dread, And doubt that I'm going to do it.

I can't do as much as I think I can, And I never accomplish more. I am scared to death of myself, old man, As I may have observed before. I've read the proverbs of Charley Schwab, Carnegie, and Marvin Hughitt; But whenever I tackle a difficult job, O gosh! how I hate to do it!

I try to believe in my vaunted power With that confident kind of bluff, But somebody tells me The Conning Tower Is nothing but awful stuff. And I take up my impotent pen that night, And idly and sadly chew it, As I try to write something merry and bright, And I know that I shall not do it.

And that's how I tackle my work each day-- With terror and fear and dread-- And all I can see is a long array Of empty columns ahead. And those are the thoughts that are in my mind, And that's about all there's to it. As long as it's work, of whatever kind, I'm certain I cannot do it.

Recuerdo

We were very tired, we were very merry-- We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry. It was bare and bright, and smelled like a stable-- But we looked into a fire, we leaned across a table, We lay on the hill-top underneath the moon; And the whistles kept blowing, and the dawn came soon.

We were very tired, we were very merry-- We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry; And you ate an apple, and I ate a pear, From a dozen of each we had bought somewhere; And the sky went wan, and the wind came cold, And the sun rose dripping, a bucketful of gold.

We were very tired, we were very merry, We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry. We hailed, "Good morrow, mother!" to a shawl-covered head, And bought a morning paper, which neither of us read; And she wept, "God bless you!" for the apples and pears, And we gave her all our money but our subway fares.

I was very sad, I was very solemn-- I had worked all day grinding out a column. I came back from dinner at half-past seven, And I couldn't think of anything till quarter to eleven; And then I read "Recuerdo," by Miss Millay, And I said, "I'll bet a nickel I can write that way."

I was very sad, I was very solemn-- I had worked all day whittling out a column. I said, "I'll bet a nickel I can chirp such a chant," And Mr. Geoffrey Parsons said, "I'll bet you can't." I bit a chunk of chocolate and found it sweet, And I listened to the trucking on Frankfort Street.

I was very sad, I was very solemn-- I had worked all day fooling with a column. I got as far as this and took my verses in To Mr. Geoffrey Parsons, who said, "Kid, you win." And--not that I imagine that any one'll care-- I blew that jitney on a subway fare.

On Tradition

LINES PROVOKED BY HEARING A YOUNG MAN WHISTLING

No carmine radical in Art, I worship at the shrine of Form; Yet open are my mind and heart To each departure from the norm. When Post-Impressionism emerged, I hesitated but a minute Before I saw, though it diverged, That there was something healthy in it.

And eke when Music, heavenly maid, Undid the chains that chafed her feet, I grew to like discordant shade-- Unharmony I thought was sweet. When verse divorced herself from sound, I wept at first. Now I say: "Oh, well, I see some sense in Ezra Pound, And nearly some in Amy Lowell."

Unshackled Thoughts on Chivalry, Romance, Adventure, Etc.

Yesterday afternoon, while I was walking on Worth Street, A gust of wind blew my hat off. I swore, petulantly, but somewhat noisily. A young woman had been near, walking behind me; She must have heard me, I thought. And I was ashamed, and embarrassedly sorry. So I said to her: "If you heard me, I beg your pardon." But she gave me a frightened look And ran across the street, Seeking a policeman. So I thought, Why waste five hours trying to versify the incident? Vers libre would serve her right.

Results Ridiculous

"PARADISE LOST"

Sing, Heavenly Muse, in lines that flow More smoothly than the wandering Po, Of man's descending from the height Of Heaven itself, the blue, the bright, To Hell's unutterable throe.

Of sin original and the woe That fell upon us here below From man's pomonic primal bite-- Sing, Heavenly Muse!

Of summer sun, of winter snow, Of future days, of long ago, Of morning and "the shades of night," Of woman, "my ever new delight," Go to it, Muse, and put us joe-- Sing, Heavenly Muse!

"THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER"

The wedding guest sat on a stone, He could not choose but hear The mariner. They were there alone. The wedding guest sat on a stone. "I'll read you something of my own," Declared that mariner. The wedding guest sat on a stone-- He could not choose but hear.

Regarding the U. S. and New York

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