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Title: Mother Goose for Grown-ups Author: Guy Wetmore Carryl Illustrator: Peter Newell Gustave Verbeek Release date: October 25, 2015 [eBook #50310] Language: English Credits: Produced by Suzanne Shell, Melissa McDaniel, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) *** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MOTHER GOOSE FOR GROWN-UPS *** Produced by Suzanne Shell, Melissa McDaniel, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) Transcriber's Note: Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have been preserved. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. Italic text is denoted by _underscores_ MOTHER GOOSE FOR GROWN-UPS [Illustration: "'WILL YOU TELL ME IF IT'S STRAIGHT?'"] MOTHER GOOSE FOR GROWN-UPS By GUY WETMORE CARRYL With Illustrations by PETER NEWELL and GUSTAVE VERBEEK NEW YORK AND LONDON HARPER & BROTHERS 1900 Copyright, 1900, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All rights reserved TO CONSTANCE In memory of other days, Dear critic, when your whispered praise Cheered on the limping pen. How short, how sweet those younger hours, How bright our suns, how few our showers, Alas, we knew not then! If but, long leagues across the seas, The trivial charm of rhymes like these Shall serve to link us twain An instant in the olden spell That once we knew and loved so well, I have not worked in vain! NOTE I have pleasure in acknowledging the courteous permission of the editors to reprint in this form such of the following verses as were originally published in _Harper's Magazine_, the _Saturday Evening Post_, and the _London Sketch_. G. W. C. CONTENTS PAGE THE ADMIRABLE ASSERTIVENESS OF JILTED JACK 3 THE BLATANT BRUTALITY OF LITTLE BOW PEEP 9 THE COMMENDABLE CASTIGATION OF OLD MOTHER HUBBARD 15 THE DISCOURAGING DISCOVERY OF LITTLE JACK HORNER 21 THE EMBARRASSING EPISODE OF LITTLE MISS MUFFET 27 THE FEARFUL FINALE OF THE IRASCIBLE MOUSE 33 THE GASTRONOMIC GUILE OF SIMPLE SIMON 39 THE HARMONIOUS HEEDLESSNESS OF LITTLE BOY BLUE 47 THE INEXCUSABLE IMPROBITY OF TOM, THE PIPER'S SON 53 THE JUDICIOUS JUDGMENT OF QUITE CONTRARY MARY 59 THE LINGUISTIC LANGUOR OF CHARLES AUGUSTUS SPRAGUE 65 THE MYSTERIOUS MISAPPREHENSION CONCERNING A MAN IN OUR TOWN 71 THE OPPORTUNE OVERTHROW OF HUMPTY DUMPTY 77 THE PREPOSTEROUS PERFORMANCE OF AN OLD LADY OF BANBURY 83 THE QUIXOTIC QUEST OF THREE BLIND MICE 89 THE REMARKABLE REGIMEN OF THE SPRAT FAMILY 95 THE SINGULAR SANGFROID OF BABY BUNTING 101 THE TOUCHING TENDERNESS OF KING KARL THE FIRST 107 THE UNUSUAL UBIQUITY OF THE INQUISITIVE GANDER 113 ILLUSTRATIONS PAGE "'WILL YOU TELL ME IF IT'S STRAIGHT?'" Frontispiece "SHE WAS SO CHARMINGLY WATTEAU-LIKE" Facing p. 10 "NOW SIMON'S TASTES WERE MOST PROFUSE" " 40 "WHILE BY KICKS HE LOOSENED BRICKS" " 78 "SHE PLUCKED HIM WITH RELENTLESS FROWN" " 114 THE ADMIRABLE ASSERTIVENESS OF JILTED JACK A noble and a generous mind Was Jack's; Folks knew he would not talk behind Their backs: But when some maiden fresh and young, At Jack a bit of banter flung, She soon discovered that his tongue Was sharp as any ax. A flirt of most engaging wiles Was Jill; On Jack she lavished all her smiles, Until Her slave (and he was not the first) Of lovesick swains became the worst, His glance a strong box might have burst, His sighs were fit to kill. One April morning, clear and fair, When both Of staying home and idling there In sloth Were weary, Jack remarked to Jill: "Oh, what's the sense in sitting still? Let's mount the slope of yonder hill." And she was nothing loth. But as she answered: "What's the use?" The gruff Young swain replied: "Oh, there's excuse Enough. Your doting parents water lack; We'll fill a pail and bring it back." (The reader will perceive that Jack Was putting up a bluff.) Thus hand in hand the tempting hill They scaled, And Jack proposed a kiss to Jill, And failed! One backward start, one step too bold, And down the hill the couple rolled, Resembling, if the truth were told, A luggage train derailed. With eyes ablaze with anger, she Exclaimed: "Well, who'd have thought! You'd ought to be Ashamed! You quite forget yourself, it's plain, So I'll forget you, too. Insane Young man, I'll say _oafweederzane_." (Her German might be blamed.) But Jack, whose linguist's pride was pricked, To shine, Asked: "_Meine Königin will nicht_ Be mine?" And when she answered: "Nein" in spleen, He cried: "Then in the soup tureen You'll stay. You're not the only queen Discarded for a nein!" THE MORAL'S made for maidens young And small: If you would in a foreign tongue Enthrall, Lead off undaunted in a Swede Or Spanish speech, and you'll succeed, But they who in a German lead No favor win at all. THE BLATANT BRUTALITY OF LITTLE BOW PEEP Though she was only a shepherdess, Tending the meekest of sheep, Never was African leopardess Crosser than Little Bow Peep: Quite apathetic, impassible People described her as: "That Wayward, contentious, irascible, Testy, cantankerous brat!" Yet, as she dozed in a grotto-like Sort of a kind of a nook, She was so charmingly Watteau-like, What with her sheep and her crook; "She is a dryad or nymph," any Casual passer would think. Poets pronounced her a symphony, All in the palest of pink. Thus it was not enigmatical, That the young shepherd who first Found her asleep, in ecstatical Sighs of felicity burst: Such was his sudden beatitude That, as he gazed at her so, Daphnis gave vent to this platitude: "My! Ain't she elegant though!" Roused from some dream of Arcadia, Little Bow Peep with a start Answered him: "I ain't afraid o' yer! P'raps you imagine you're smart!" Daphnis protested impulsively, Blushing as red as a rose; All was in vain. She convulsively Punched the young man in the nose! All of it's true, every word of it! I was not present to peep, But if you ask how I heard of it, Please to remember the sheep. There is no need of excuse. You will See how such scandals occur: If you recall Mother Goose, you will Know what tail-bearers they were! MORAL: This pair irreclaimable Might have made Seraphim weep, But who can pick the most blamable? _Both saw a little beau peep!_ [Illustration: "SHE WAS SO CHARMINGLY WATTEAU-LIKE"] THE COMMENDABLE CASTIGATION OF OLD MOTHER HUBBARD She was one of those creatures Whose features Are hard beyond any reclaim; And she loved in a hovel To grovel, And she hadn't a cent to her name. She owned neither gallants Nor talents; She borrowed extensively, too, From all of her dozens Of cousins, And never refunded a _sou_: Yet all they said in abuse of her Was: "She is prouder than Lucifer!" (That, I must say, without meaning to blame, Is always the way with that kind of a dame!) There never was jolli- Er colley Than Old Mother Hubbard had found, Though cheaply she bought him, She'd taught him To follow her meekly around: But though she would lick him And kick him, It never had any effect; He always was howling And growling, But goodness! What could you expect? Colleys were never to flourish meant 'Less they had plenty of nourishment, All that he had were the feathers she'd pluck Off an occasional chicken or duck. The colley was barred in The garden, He howled and he wailed and he whined. The neighbors indignant, Malignant Petitions unanimous signed. "The nuisance grows nightly," Politely They wrote. "It's an odious hound, And either you'll fill him, Or kill him, Or else he must go to the pound. For if this howling infernally Is to continue nocturnally-- Pardon us, ma'am, if we seem to be curt-- Somebody's apt to get horribly hurt!" Mother Hubbard cried loudly And proudly: "Lands sakes! but you give yourselves airs! I'll take the law to you And sue you." The neighbors responded: "Who cares? We none of us care if The sheriff Lock every man jack of us up; We won't be repining At fining So long as we're rid of the pup!" They then proceeded to mount a sign, Bearing this ominous countersign: "FREEMEN! THE MOMENT HAS COME TO PROTEST AND OLD MOTHER HUBBARD DELENDUM EST!" They marched to her gateway, And straightway They trampled all over her lawn; Most rudely they harried And carried Her round on a rail until dawn. They marred her, and jarred her, And tarred her And feathered her, just as they should, Of speech they bereft her, And left her With: "_Now_ do you think you'll be good!" THE MORAL'S a charmingly pleasing one. While we would deprecate teasing one, Still, when a dame has politeness rebuffed, She certainly ought to be collared and cuffed. THE DISCOURAGING DISCOVERY OF LITTLE JACK HORNER A knack almost incredible for dealing with an edible Jack Horner's elder sister was acknowledged to display; She labored hard and zealously, but always guarded jealously The secrets of the dishes she invented every day. She'd take some indigestible, unpopular comestible, And to its better nature would so tenderly appeal That Jack invoked a benison upon a haunch of venison, When really she was serving him a little leg of veal! Jack said she was a miracle. The word was not satirical, For daily climbing upward, she excelled herself at last: The acme of facility, the zenith of ability Was what she gave her brother for his Christmas Day repast. He dined that evening eagerly and anything but meagerly, And when he'd had his salad and his quart of Extra Dry, With sisterly benignity, and just a touch of dignity, She placed upon the table an unutterable pie! Unflagging pertinacity, and technical sagacity, Long nights of sleepless vigil, and long days of constant care Had been involved in making it, improving it, and baking it, Until of other pies it was the wonder and despair: So princely and so prominent, so solemn, so predominant It looked upon the table, that, with fascinated eye, The youth, with sudden wonder struck, electrified, and thunder struck, Could only stammer stupidly: "Oh Golly! What a pie!" In view of his satiety, it almost seemed impiety To carve this crowning triumph of a culinary life, But, braced by his avidity, with sudden intrepidity He broke its dome imposing with a common kitchen knife. Ah, hideous fatality! for when with eager palate he Commenced to eat, he happened on an accident uncouth, And cried with stifled moan: "Of it one plum I tried. The stone of it Had never been extracted, and I've broke a wisdom tooth!" Jack's sister wept effusively, but loudly and abusively His unreserved opinion of her talents he proclaimed; He called her names like "driveller" and "simpleton" and "sniveller," And others, which to mention I am really too ashamed. THE MORAL: It is saddening, embarrassing, and maddening A stone to strike in what you thought was paste. One thing alone Than this mischance is crueller, and that is for a jeweller To strike but paste in what he fondly thought to be a stone. THE EMBARRASSING EPISODE OF LITTLE MISS MUFFET Little Miss Muffet discovered a tuffet, (Which never occurred to the rest of us) And, as 'twas a June day, and just about noonday, She wanted to eat--like the best of us: Her diet was whey, and I hasten to say It is wholesome and people grow fat on it. The spot being lonely, the lady not only Discovered the tuffet, but sat on it. A rivulet gabbled beside her and babbled, As rivulets always are thought to do, And dragon-flies sported around and cavorted, As poets say dragon-flies ought to do; When, glancing aside for a moment, she spied A horrible sight that brought fear to her, A hideous spider was sitting beside her And most unavoidably near to her! Albeit unsightly, this creature politely Said: "Madam, I earnestly vow to you, I'm penitent that I did not bring my hat. I Should otherwise certainly bow to you." Though anxious to please, he was so ill at ease That he lost all his sense of propriety, And grew so inept that he clumsily stept In her plate--which is barred in Society. This curious error completed her terror; She shuddered, and growing much paler, not Only left tuffet, but dealt him a buffet Which doubled him up in a sailor-knot. It should be explained that at this he was pained: He cried: "I have vexed you, no doubt of it! Your fist's like a truncheon." "You're still in my luncheon," Was all that she answered. "Get out of it!" And THE MORAL is this: Be it madam or miss To whom you have something to say, You are only absurd when you get in the curd But you're rude when you get in the whey. THE FEARFUL FINALE OF THE IRASCIBLE MOUSE Upon a stairway built of brick A pleasant-featured clock From time to time would murmur "Tick" And vary it with "Tock": Although no great intelligence There lay in either word, They were not meant to give offence To anyone who heard. Within the pantry of the house, Among some piles of cheese, There dwelt an irritable mouse, Extremely hard to please: His appetite was most immense. Each day he ate a wedge Of Stilton cheese. In consequence His nerves were all on edge. With ill-concealed impatience he, Upon his morning walk, Had heard the clock unceasingly, Monotonously talk, Until his rage burst every bound. He gave a fretful shout: "Well, sakes alive! It's time I found What all this talk's about." With all the admirable skill That marks the rodent race The mouse ran up the clock, until He'd crept behind the face, And then, with words that no one ought To use, and scornful squeals, He cried aloud: "Just what I thought! Great oaf, you're full of wheels!" The timepiece sternly said: "Have done!" And through the silent house It struck emphatically one. (But that one was the mouse!) To earth the prowling rodent fell, In terror for his life, And turned to flee, but, sad to tell, There stood the farmer's wife. She did not faint, she did not quail, She did not cry out: "Scat!" She simply took him by the tail And gave him to the cat, And, with a stern, triumphant look, She watched him clawed and cleft, And with some blotting paper took Up all that there was left. THE MORAL: In a farmer's home Run down his herds, his flocks, Run down his crops, run down his loam, But when it comes to clocks, Pray leave them ticking every one In peace upon their shelves: When running down is to be done The clocks run down themselves. THE GASTRONOMIC GUILE OF SIMPLE SIMON Conveniently near to where Young Simple Simon dwelt There was to be a county fair, And Simple Simon felt That to the fair he ought to go In all his Sunday clothes, and so, Determined to behold the show, He put them on and went. (One-half his clothes was borrowed and the other half was lent.) He heard afar the cheerful sound Of horns that people blew, Saw wooden horses swing around A circle, two and two, Beheld balloons arise, and if He scented with a gentle sniff The smells of pies, what is the dif- Ference to me or you? (You cannot say my verse is false, because I know it's true.) As Simple Simon nearer came To these attractive smells, Avoiding every little game Men played with walnut shells, He felt a sudden longing rise. The sparkle in his eager eyes Betrayed the fact he yearned for pies: The eye the secret tells. ('Tis known the pie of county fairs all other pies excels.) So when he saw upon the road, Some fifty feet away, A pieman, Simple Simon strode Toward him, shouting: "Hey! What kinds?" as lordly as a prince. The pieman said: "I've pumpkin, quince, Blueberry, lemon, peach, and mince:" And, showing his array, He added: "Won't you try one, sir? They're very nice to-day." Now Simon's taste was most profuse, And so, by way of start, He ate two cakes, a Charlotte Russe, Six buns, the better part Of one big gingerbread, a pair Of lady-fingers, an eclair, And ten assorted pies, and there, His hand upon his heart, He paused to choose between an apple dumpling and a tart. Observing that upon his tray His goods were growing few, The pieman cried: "I beg to say That patrons such as you One does not meet in many a moon. Pray, won't you try this macaroon?" But soon suspicious, changed his tune, Continuing: "What is due I beg respectfully to add's a dollar twenty-two." Then Simple Simon put a curb Upon his appetite, And turning with an air superb He suddenly took flight, While o'er his shoulder this absurd And really most offensive word The trusting pieman shortly heard To soothe his bitter plight: "Perhaps I should have said before your wares are out of sight." THE MORAL is a simple one, But still of consequence. We've seen that Simon's sense of fun Was almost too intense: Though blaming his deceitful guise, We with the pieman sympathize, The latter we must criticize Because he was so dense: He might have known from what he ate that Simon had no cents. [Illustration: "NOW SIMON'S TASTES WERE MOST PROFUSE"] THE HARMONIOUS HEEDLESSNESS OF LITTLE BOY BLUE Composing scales beside the rails That flanked a field of corn, A farmer's boy with vicious joy Performed upon a horn: The vagrant airs, the fragrant airs Around that field that strayed, Took flight before the flagrant airs That noisome urchin played. He played with care "The Maiden's Prayer;" He played "God Save the Queen," "Die Wacht am Rhein," and "Auld Lang Syne," And "Wearing of the Green:" With futile toots, and brutal toots, And shrill chromatic scales, And utterly inutile toots, And agonizing wails. The while he played, around him strayed, And calmly chewed the cud, Some thirty-nine assorted kine, All ankle-deep in mud: They stamped about and tramped about That mud, till all the troupe Made noises, as they ramped about, Like school-boys eating soup. Till, growing bored, with one accord They broke the fence forlorn: The field was doomed. The cows consumed Two-thirds of all the corn, And viciously, maliciously, Went prancing o'er the loam. That landscape expeditiously Resembled harvest-home. "Most idle ass of all your class," The farmer said with scorn: "Just see my son, what you have done! The cows are in the corn!" "Oh drat," he said, "the brat!" he said. The cowherd seemed to rouse. "My friend, it's worse than that," he said. "The corn is in the cows." THE MORAL lies before our eyes. When tending kine and corn, Don't spend your noons in tooting tunes Upon a blatant horn: Or scaling, and assailing, and With energy immense, Your cows will take a railing, and The farmer take offense. THE INEXCUSABLE IMPROBITY OF TOM, THE PIPER'S SON A Paris butcher kept a shop Upon the river's bank Where you could buy a mutton chop Or two for half a franc. The little shop was spruce and neat, In view of all who trod the street The decorated joints of meat Were hung up in a rank. This Gallic butcher led a life Of highly moral tone; He never raised his voice in strife, He never drank alone: He simply sat outside his door And slept from eight o'clock till four; The more he slept, so much the more To slumber he was prone. One day outside his shop he put A pig he meant to stuff, And carefully around each foot He pinned a paper ruff, But, while a watch he should have kept, His habit conquered, and he slept, And for a thief who was adept That surely was enough. A Scottish piper dwelt near by, Whose one ungracious son Beheld that pig and murmured: "Why, No sooner said than done! It seems to me that this I need." And grasping it, with all his speed Across the Pont des Invalides He started on a run. Then, turning sharply to the right, Without a thought of risk, He fled. 'Tis fair to call his flight Inordinately brisk. But now the town was all astir, In vain his feet he strove to spur, They caught him, shouting: "Au voleur!" Beside the Obelisk. The breathless butcher cried: "A mort!" The crowd said: "Conspuez!" And some: "A bas!" and half a score Responded: "Vive l'armée!" While grim gendarmes with piercing eye, And stern remarks about: "Canaille!" The pig abstracted on the sly. Such is the Gallic way! The piper's offspring, his defeat Deep-rooted in his heart, A revolutionary sheet Proceeded then to start. Thenceforward every evening he In leaders scathed the Ministry, And wished he could accomplish the Return of Bonaparte. THE MORAL is that when the press Begins to rave and shout It's often difficult to guess What it is all about. The editor we strive to pin, But we can never find him in. What startling knowledge we should win If we could find him out! THE JUDICIOUS JUDGMENT OF QUITE CONTRARY MARY Though Mary had the kind of face The rudest wind would softly blow on; Though she was full of simple grace, Sweet, amiable, and kind, and so on; I would not have you understand That she was meek. You'd be mistaken. She worked out logarithms, and Her favorite essayist was Bacon. And, though not positive, I think She'd heard about Savonarola, Had studied Maurice Maeterlinck, And read the works of Emile Zola, And Emerson's and some of Kant's, And all of mine and Shopenhauer's; But still she cultivated plants, And spent her life in tending flowers. She had a little hedge of box, Azalias, and a bed of tansy, A double row of hollyhocks, And every different kind of pansy: And, though so innocent of look, She'd lovers by the scores and dozens, And learned, by talking with the cook, To tell her friends they were her cousins. The first was French, the second Greek, The third was born upon the Mersey, The fourth one came from Mozambique, The fifth one from the Isle of Jersey. I cannot tell about the rest, But, judging from their dress and faces, They came from north, east, south, and west, But all of them from different places. Now, such was Mary's sense of pride, Despite their fervent protestations, Before she vowed to be a bride She set them all examinations: She asked each one to tell the date Of Washington and Cleopatra, Name Dickens' novels, and locate The site of Yonkers and Sumatra. But so it chanced that, from a score Of suitors resolute and haughty, One gained a mark of sixty-four, And all the rest were under forty. One swain alone the rest outclassed; Because of one audacious guess, he This strict examination passed When Mary asked the date of Crécy. THE MORAL shows that when a maid Her life devotes unto a garden, When horticultural skill's displayed Her heart she does not dare to harden. So crafty suitors, scorn the fates And you may lay this flattering balm to Your souls; if you but get your dates The chances are you'll get the palm, too! THE LINGUISTIC LANGUOR OF CHARLES AUGUSTUS SPRAGUE A child of nature curious Was Charles Augustus Sprague; He made his parents furious Because he was so vague: Although his age was nearly two Eleven words were all he knew, These sounded much as sounds the Dutch That's spoken at The Hague. A few of his errata 'Tis just I should avow, He called his mother "Tata," And "moo" he dubbed a cow, Nor was it altogether plain Why "choo-choo" meant a railway train. He called a cat "miouw," and that No purist would allow. Within his father's orchard There stood, for all to see, With branches bent and tortured, An ancient apple tree: That Charles Augustus Sprague might drowse His mother on its swaying boughs His cradle hung, and, while it swung, She sang with energy. A sudden blow arising One day, the branches broke, With suddenness surprising The sleeping babe awoke, And crashing down to earth he fell. Ah me, that I should have to tell The words that mild and genial child On this occasion spoke! His face convulsed and chequered With passion and with tears, He blotted out the record Of both his speechless years: His mother stupefied, aghast, Heard Charles Augustus speak at last; He opened wide his mouth and cried These ill conditioned sneers. "Sapristi! Accidente! Perchance my speech is late, But, be she two or twenty, A nincompoop I hate! What idiot said that woman's 'planned To warn, to comfort, and command?'" His words I quench. Excuse my French-- Je dis que tu m'embêtes! THE MORAL: Common clocks, we find, In silence take a sudden wind, But only heroes, as we know, In silence take a sudden blow. THE MYSTERIOUS MISAPPREHENSION CONCERNING A MAN IN OUR TOWN There was a man in our town, Half beggar, half rapscallion, Who, just because his eyes were brown, Was thought to be Italian: And, though with much insistence He said that people erred, And bitterly to Italy He frequently referred, The false report, as is the way Of false reports, had come to stay! So every one who'd been to Rome By aid of Cook's or Gaze's, Would call upon him at his home To flaunt Italian phrases. "Capite Questa lingua?" The inquiry would be: "Pochissimo? Benissimo! Vi prego, ditemi, Siete voi contento qua, Lontano dall'Italia?" The victim, plunged in deep disgust, Grew nervous, could not slumber; Said he, "I'm called Italian, just Because my eyes are umber, And if this persecution Is ever to be stopped, Some stern and stoic, hard, heroic Course I must adopt!" And so, to everyone's surprise, He calmly scratched out both his eyes! The neighbors said: "So strange a thing Might seem to be an omen. We _thought_ his wits were wandering, But now we _know_ they're Roman!" And so at him by legions, By bevies, hosts, and herds, Professors, purists, tramps, and tourists Screamed Italian words. Perceiving all he'd done was vain, He scratched his eyesight in again. THE MORAL: If your neighbors say You're one thing or another, You'll find there isn't any way Their prejudice to smother. What matter if they think you From Italy or Greece? I beg you, treasure no displeasure: Bow and hold your peace. Like Omar, underneath the bow You'll find there's paradise enow! THE OPPORTUNE OVERTHROW OF HUMPTY DUMPTY Upon a wall of medium height Bombastically sat A boastful boy, and he was quite Unreasonably fat: And what aroused a most intense Disgust in passers-by Was his abnormal impudence In hailing them with "Hi!" While by his kicks he loosened bricks The girls to terrify. When thus for half an hour or more He'd played his idle tricks, And wounded something like a score Of people with the bricks, A man who kept a fuel shop Across from where he sat Remarked: "Well, this has got to stop." Then, snatching up his hat, And sallying out, began to shout: "Look here! Come down from that!" The boastful boy to laugh began, As laughs a vapid clown, And cried: "It takes a bigger man Than you to call me down! This wall is smooth, this wall is high, And safe from every one. No acrobat could do what I Had been and gone and done!" Though this reviled, the other smiled, And said: "Just wait, my son!" Then to the interested throng That watched across the way He showed with smiling face a long And slender Henry Clay, Remarking: "In upon my shelves All kinds of coal there are. Step in, my friends, and help yourselves. And he who first can jar That wretched urchin off his perch Will get this good cigar." The throng this task did not disdain, But threw with heart and soul, Till round the youth there raged a rain Of lumps of cannel-coal. He dodged for all that he was worth, Till one bombarder deft Triumphant brought him down to earth, Of vanity bereft. "I see," said he, "that this is the Coal day when I get left." THE MORAL is that fuel can Become the tool of fate When thrown upon a little man, Instead of on a grate. This story proves that when a brat Imagines he's admired, And acts in such a fashion that He makes his neighbors tired, That little fool, who's much too cool; Gets warmed when coal is fired. [Illustration: "WHILE BY KICKS HE LOOSENED BRICKS"] THE PREPOSTEROUS PERFORMANCE OF AN OLD LADY OF BANBURY Within a little attic a retiring, but erratic Old lady (six-and-eighty, to be frank), Made sauces out of cranberry for all the town of Banbury, Depositing the proceeds in the bank. Her tendency to thriftiness, her scorn of any shiftiness Built a bustling business, and in course Of time her secret yearnings were revealed, and all her earnings She squandered in the purchase of a horse. "I am not in a hurry for a waggonette or surrey," She said. "In fact, I much prefer to ride." And spite of all premonishment, to everyone's astonishment, The gay old lady did so--and astride! Now this was most periculous, but, what was more ridiculous, The horse she bought had pulled a car, and so, The lazy steed to cheer up, she'd a bell upon her stirrup, And rang it twice to make the creature go! I blush the truth to utter, but it seems a pound of butter And thirty eggs she had to sell. Of course, In scorn of ways pedestrian, this fatuous equestrian To market gaily started on the horse. Becoming too importunate to hasten, the un- fortunate Old lady plied her charger with a birch. In view of all her cronies, this stupidest of ponies Fell flat before the Presbyterian church! If it should chance that one set a red Italian sunset Beside a Beardsley poster, and a plaid Like any canny Highlander's beside a Fiji Islander's Most variegated costume, and should add A Turner composition, and with clever intuition, To cap the climax, pile upon them all The aurora borealis, then veracity, not malice, Might claim a close resemblance to her fall. At sight of her disaster, with arnica and plaster The neighbors ran up eagerly to aid. They cried: "Don't do that offen, ma'am, or you will need a coffin, ma'am, You've hurt your solar plexus, we're afraid. We hope your martyrdom'll let you notice what an omelette You've made in half a jiffy. It is great!" She only clutched her bonnet (she had fallen flat upon it), And answered: "Will you tell me if it's straight?" THE MORAL'S rather curious: for often the penurious Are apt to think old horses of account If you would ride, then seek fine examples of the equine, And don't look on a molehill as a mount. THE QUIXOTIC QUEST OF THREE BLIND MICE A maiden mouse of an arrogant mind Had three little swains and all were blind. The reason for this I do not know, But I think it was love that made them so, For without demur they bowed to her, Though she treated them all with a high hauteur. She ruled them, schooled them, frequently fooled them, Snubbed, tormented, and ridiculed them: Mice as a rule are much like men, So they swallowed their pride and called again. The maiden mouse of an arrogant mind To morbid romance was much inclined. The reason for this I have not learned, But I think by novels her head was turned. She said that the chap who dared to nap One hour inside of the farmer's trap Might gain her, reign her, wholly enchain her, Woo her, win her, and thence retain her! Hope ran high in each suitor's breast, And all determined to stand the test. The maiden mouse of an arrogant mind Laughed when she saw them thus confined. The reason for this I can't proclaim, But I know some girls who'd have done the same! As thus they kept to their word, and slept, The farmer's wife to the pantry stept: She sought them, caught them, carefully brought them Out to the light, and there she taught them How that chivalry often fails, By calmly cutting off all their tails! The maiden mouse of an arrogant mind Treated her swains in a way unkind. The reason for this is not complex: That's always the way with the tender sex. With impudent hails she cried: "What ails You all, and where are your splendid tails?" She jeered so, sneered so, flouted and fleered so, Giggled, and altogether appeared so Lacking in heart, that her slaves grew bored, And threw up the sponge of their own accord. The maiden mouse of an arrogant mind Watched and waited, and peaked and pined. The reason for this, I beg to state, Is all summed up in the words TOO LATE! THE MORAL intwined is: Love is blind, But he never leaves all his wits behind: You may beat him, cheat him, often defeat him, Though he be true with torture treat him: One of these days you'll be bereft, You think you're right, but you'll find you're left. THE REMARKABLE REGIMEN OF THE SPRAT FAMILY The Sprats were four in number, Including twins in kilts: All day Jack carted lumber, All day his wife made quilts. Thus heartlessly neglected Twelve hours in twenty-four, As might have been expected, The twins sat on the floor: And all the buttons, I should state, They chanced to find, they promptly ate. This was not meat, but still it's true We did the same when we were two. The wife (whose name was Julia) Maintained an ample board, But one thing was peculiar, Lean meat she quite abhorred. Here also should be stated Another fact: 'tis that Her spouse abominated The very taste of fat. This contrast curious of taste Precluded any thought of waste, For all they left of any meal No self-respecting dog would steal. No generous _table d'hôte_ meal, No dainties packed in tins, But only bowls of oatmeal They gave the wretched twins; And yet like princes pampered Had lived those babes accursed, Could they have fed unhampered:-- I have not told the worst! Since nothing from the dining-room Was left to feed the cook and groom, It seems that these domestics cruel Were led to steal the children's gruel! The twins, all hopes resigning, And wounded to the core, Confined themselves to dining On buttons off the floor. No passionate resentment The docile babes displayed: Each day in calm contentment Three hearty meals they made. And daily Jack and Mrs. Sprat Ate all the lean and all the fat, And every day the groom and cook The children's meal contrived to hook. But when the twins grew older, As twins are apt to do, And, shoulder touching shoulder, Sat Sundays in their pew. They saw no Christian glory In parting with a dime, And in the offertory Dropped buttons every time. Said they: "What's good enough for Sprats Is good enough for heathen brats." (I most sincerely wish I knew What was the heathen's point of view.) THE MORAL: Anecdotes abound Of buttons in collections found. Thus on the wheels of progress go, And heathens reap what Christians sew! THE SINGULAR SANGFROID OF BABY BUNTING Bartholomew Benjamin Bunting Had only three passions in life, And one of the trio was hunting, The others his babe and his wife: And always, so rigid his habits, He frolicked at home until two, And then started hunting for rabbits, And hunted till fall of the dew. Belinda Bellonia Bunting, Thus widowed for half of the day, Her duty maternal confronting, With baby would patiently play. When thus was her energy wasted A patented food she'd dispense. (She had bought it the day that they pasted The posters all over her fence.) But Bonaparte Buckingham Bunting, The infant thus blindly adored, Replied to her worship by grunting, Which showed he was brutally bored. 'Twas little he cared for the troubles Of life. Like a crab on the sands, From his sweet little mouth he blew bubbles, And threatened the air with his hands. Bartholomew Benjamin Bunting One night, as his wife let him in, Produced as the fruit of his hunting A cottontail's velvety skin, Which, seeing young Bonaparte wriggle, He gave him without a demur, And the babe with an aqueous giggle He swallowed the whole of the fur! Belinda Bellonia Bunting Behaved like a consummate loon: Her offspring in frenzy confronting She screamed herself mottled maroon: She felt of his vertebræ spinal, Expecting he'd surely succumb, And gave him one vigorous, final, Hard prod in the pit of his tum. But Bonaparte Buckingham Bunting, At first but a trifle perplexed, By a change in his manner of grunting Soon showed he was terribly vexed. He displayed not a sign of repentance But spoke, in a dignified tone, The only consecutive sentence He uttered. 'Twas: "Lemme alone." THE MORAL: The parent that uses Precaution his folly regrets: An infant gets all that he chooses, An infant chews all that he gets. And colics? He constantly has 'em So long as his food is the best, But he'll swallow with never a spasm What ostriches couldn't digest! THE TOUCHING TENDERNESS OF KING KARL THE FIRST For hunger and thirst King Karl the First Had a stoical, stern disdain: The food that he ordered consistently bordered On what is described as plain. Much trouble his cook ambitiously took To tickle his frugal taste, But all of his savoury science and slavery Ended in naught but waste. Said the steward: "The thing to tempt the King And charm his indifferent eye No doubt is a tasty, delectable pasty. Make him a blackbird pie!" The cook at these words baked twenty-four birds, And set them before the King, And the two dozen odious, bold, and melodious Singers began to sing. The King in surprise said: "Dozens of pies In the course of our life we've tried, But never before us was served up a chorus Like this that we hear inside!" With a thunderous look he ordered the cook And the steward before him brought, And with a beatified smile: "He is satisfied!" Both of these innocents thought. "Of sinners the worst," said Karl the First, "Is the barbarous ruffian that A song-bird would slaughter, unless for his daughter Or wife he is trimming a hat. We'll punish you so for the future you'll know That from mercy you can't depart. Observe that your lenient, kind, intervenient King has a tender heart!" He saw that the cook in a neighboring brook Was drowned (as he quite deserved), And he ordered the steward at once to be skewered. (The steward was much unnerved.) "It's a curious thing," said the merciful King, "That monarchs so tender are, So oft we're affected that we have suspected that We are too kind by far." THE MORAL: The mercy of men and of Kings Are apt to be wholly dissimilar things. In spite of "The Merchant of Venice," we're pained To note that the quality's sometimes strained. [Illustration: "SHE PLUCKED HIM WITH RELENTLESS FROWN"] THE UNUSUAL UBIQUITY OF THE INQUISITIVE GANDER A gander dwelt upon a farm And no one could resist him, For had he died, such was his charm, His neighbors would have missed him: His scorn for any loud display, His cheerful hissing day by day, Would win your heart in such a way You almost could have kissed him. This bird was always nosing 'round. Most patiently he waited Until an open door he found, And then investigated. He loved to poke, he loved to peek, In every knothole, so to speak, He quickly thrust his prying beak, For what was hid he hated. The farm exhausted: "Now," said he: "My policy's expansion. When one's convinced how things should be The proper course he can't shun. His mind made up, he followed it, Relying on his native wit, And soon had wandered, bit by bit, Through all his master's mansion. "At least," he said: "It's not my fault If everything's not seen to: I've gone from garret down to vault, And glanced into the lean-to. In every room I've chanced to stop; A supervising glance to drop, I've looked below, I've looked on top, Behind, and in between, too!" One thing alone he found to blame, As thus his time he squandered, For, seeing not the farmer's dame, Into her room he wandered, And mounting nimbly on the bed: "Why, bless my careful soul!" he said: "These pillows are as hard as lead. Now, how comes that?" he pondered. The farmer's dame for half an hour Had watched the bird meander, And finding him within her power, She leaped upon the gander. "Why, how de do, my gander coy?" She shouted: "What will be my joy To dream to-night on you, my boy!" (This was no baseless slander.) For with a stoutish piece of string Securely was this fool tied, And by a leg and by a wing Unto an oaken stool tied: While, pinning towels around her gown, She plucked him with relentless frown, And stuffed the pillows with his down, And roasted him for Yuletide. THE MORAL is: When you explore Don't try to be superior: Be cautious, and retire before Your safety grows inferior. 'Tis best to stay upon the coast, Or some day you will be like most Of all that bold exploring host That's gone to the interior. THE END End of Project Gutenberg's Mother Goose for Grown-ups, by Guy Wetmore Carryl *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MOTHER GOOSE FOR GROWN-UPS *** Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be renamed. 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