Read Ebook: Cobwebs from a Library Corner by Bangs John Kendrick

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Ebook has 178 lines and 14306 words, and 4 pages

But, woe is me that it should be, They got here years ahead of me,

THEY speak most truly who do say We have no writing-folk to-day Like those whose names, in days gone by, Upon the scroll of fame stood high. And when I think of Smollett's tales, Of waspish Pope's ill-natured rails, Of Fielding dull, of Sterne too free, Of Swift's uncurbed indecency, Of Dr. Johnson's bludgeon-wit, I must confess I'm glad of it!

BY A BIBLIOMANIAC

A VOLUME'S just received on vellum print. The book is worth the vellum--no more in't. But, as I search my head for thoughts, I find One fact embedded firmly in my mind.

That's this, in short: while it no doubt may be Most pleasant for an author small to see A fine edition of his work put out, No man who's sane can ever really doubt

That products of his brain and pen can live Alone for that which they may haply give! And though on vellum stiff the work appears, It cannot live throughout the after-years,

Unless it has within its leaves some hint Of something further than the style of print And paper--give me Omar on mere waste, I'll choose it rather than some "bookish taste,"

Expended on a flimsy, whimsey tale, Put out to catch a whimsey, flimsy sale. I'd choose my Omar print on grocer's wraps Before the vellum books of "bookish" chaps.

How very close to truth these bookish men Can be when in their catalogues they pen

The words descriptive of the wares they hold To tempt the book-man with his purse of gold!

For instance, they have Dryden--splendid set-- Which some poor wight would part with wealth to get.

For who these days would think to buy the screed Of dull old dusty Dryden just to read?

In faith if his editions had been kept Amongst the rarities he'd ne'er have crept!

And then those pompous, overwhelming tomes You find so oft in overwhelming homes,

No substance on a Whatman surface placed, In polished leather and in tooling cased,

The gilded edges dazzling to the eye And flaunting all their charms so wantonly.

That's all they have, most of 'em, just plain shape, With less pure wine than any unripe grape.

But tomes that travel on their "looks" indeed Are only good for those who do not read;

And, like most people clad in garments grand, Seem rather heavy for the average hand.

WISE AND OTHERWISE

PIETRO NAPOLINI DI VENDETTA PASQUARELLE Deserted balmy Italy, the land that loved him well, And sailed for soft America, of wealth the very fount, To earn sufficient dollars there to make himself a count. Alas for poor Pietro! he arrived in winter-time, And marvelled at the poet who observed in tripping rhyme How this New World was genial, and a sunny sort of clime.

No chance had he for music that's developed by a crank, No chance had he at sculpture, nor a penny in the bank. The pea-nut trade was languid, and for him too full of risk; He thought the work on railways for his blood was rather brisk. The sole profession left him to assuage his stomach's woe, It struck him in meandering the city to and fro, Was surely that of shovelling away the rich man's snow.

And then P. Napolini di Vendetta Pasquarelle Sought out a city thoroughfare, the swellest of the swell. He stole a shovel, and he found a broom he thought would do, Then rang the massive front-door bell of Stuyvesant Depew. "I wanta shov' da snow," he said, when there at last appeared Fitzjohn Augustus Higgins, who in Birmingham was reared, A man by all in low estate much hated and much feared.

"Go wi," said Fitz, with gesture bold. "Yer cahn't do nothink ere, Yer bloomin', hugly furriner!" he added, with a sneer. "Hi thinks as 'ow you dagoes is the cuss o' this 'ere land, With wuthy citizens like me 'most starved on every 'and. Hi vows hif I'd me wi at all hi'd order hout a troop, Hand send the bloomin' lot o' yer 'ead over 'eels in soup. Git hout, yer nahsty grabber yer; hewacuate the stoop."

Then when the snow had melted off, Fitzjohn Augustus went And humbly asked his master for two dollars that he'd spent In paying Napolini di Vendetta Pasquarelle; While Nap went back to Italy, the land that loved him well, Convinced that when he sailed that time his country to forsake, He must have got aboard the ship when he was half awake, And got to London, not New York, by some most odd mistake.

Blue is a color, too, I greatly love. It's sort of satisfying to my eyes. 'Tis their own color; and I'm quite fond of This hue also for soft Italian skies.

For blushes, give me red, nor hesitate To pile it on; I like it good and strong Upon the cheeks of her I call my Fate, The loveliest of all the lovely throng.

On golden-yellow oft my fancy dwells. 'Tis almost godlike, as it sparkles through The effervescent fizz; and wondrous spells It casts o'er me when coined in dollars, too.

Hence, friend, it is I cannot specify What hues particular my joys enhance. I like them all; their popularity At special times depends on circumstance.

I WOULD not change my joys for those Of Emperors and Kings. What has my gentle friend the rose Told them, if aught, do you suppose-- The rose that tells me things?

What secrets have they had with trees? What romps with grassy spears? What know they of the mysteries Of butterflies and honey-bees, Who whisper in my ears?

What says the sunbeam unto them? What tales have brooklets told? Is there within their diadem A single rival to the gem The dewy daisies hold?

What sympathy have they with birds Whose songs are songs of mine? Do they e'er hear, as though in words 'Twas lisped, the message of the herds Of grazing, lowing kine?

Ah no! Give me no lofty throne, But just what Nature yields. Let me but wander on, alone If need be, so that all my own Are woods and dales and fields.

AT the battle of Manila, In the un-Pacific sea, Stood a gunner with his mad up Just as far as it could be-- Stood a gunner brave and ready For the hated enemy.

Every cannon belched projectiles, Every cannon breathed forth hell, Every cannon mowed the foeman From the deck into the swell, When amid the din of battle Rang the silvery breakfast-bell.

"Stop your shooting! Come to breakfast!" Cried the gallant Commodore. "After eating we will let them Have a rousing old encore. Stow your lanyards, O my Jackies; Let the cannon cease to roar."

Then upspake the fighting gunner: "Dewey, don't, I beg of you. What's the use of drinking coffee Till we've put this scrimmage through? If there's any one who's hungry, Won't this Spanish omelet do?

"COME here," said I, "oh caddy boy, and tell me how it haps You cling so fast unto these links; not like the other chaps, Who like to dally on the streets and play the game of craps?

"Is it that you enjoy the work of carrying a bag While others speed the festive ball o'er valley, hill, and crag? And do your spirits never seem to falter or to flag?

"I've watched you many a day, my lad, and puzzled o'er the fact That you are so attentive to the game; your every act Doth indicate perfection--there's been nothing you have lacked.

"And I would know just why it is that you so perfect seem-- In all my golfing days you've been the very brightest gleam-- Or am I lying home in bed and are you just a dream?"

"Oh, sir," said he, "I caddy here because I love my pa; I cling unto these gladsome links because I love my ma; In short, I love my parents, sir, and these my reasons are:

"'Twas but a year ago, good sir, when first this ancient sport Came in the portals of our home--home of the sweetest sort; When golf came through the window, sir, why home went through the port.

"My father first he took it up, and many a weary night My mother with us children waited up by candle-light, In hopes that he'd return and free us from our lonely plight.

"Then mother she went after him--alas! that it should be-- And shortly learned the game herself--she plays it famously-- Which left us children orphans, I and all my brothers three.

"They play it here, they play it there, they play it everywhere; No matter what the weather, be it wet or be it fair, And for the cares of golf they've dropped their every other care.

"And so it is that we poor lads are forced to leave our home, And join the ranks of caddy boys who o'er the fields do roam In search of little golf-balls in the sunlight and the gloam;

"For some day we are hoping that our eyes again will see Our most beloved parents on some putting-green or tee; A sight to gladden all our hearts if it should ever be."

And now together we are out on links at home and far. He and his three small brothers with their shamed, repentant pa, A-looking here and looking there to find their dear mamma.

I KNOW a wondrous man--my neighbor he; He's ripe in years, and great in understanding. He's versed in art, and in philosophy He shows a mind that's verily commanding.

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