John Smith, U.S.A. | Page 7

I'll avow they don't know how
To dance, so
awkwardly they caper!
I used to sit down in the pit
And see you flit like elf or fairy
Across
the stage, and I'll engage
No moonbeam sprite were half so airy.
Lo!
everywhere about me there
Were rivals reeking with pomatum,
And
if perchance they caught a glance
In song or dance, how did I hate
'em!
At half-past ten came rapture--then
Of all those men was I most
happy,
For wine and things and food for kings
And tete-a-tetes
were on the tapis.
Did you forget, my fair soubrette,
Those suppers
in the Cafe Rector--
The cozy nook where we partook
Of sweeter
draughts than fabled nectar?
Oh, happy days, when youth's wild ways
Knew every phase of
harmless folly!
Oh, blissful nights whose fierce delights
Defied
gaunt-featured Melancholy!
Gone are they all beyond recall,
And I,
a shade--a mere reflection--
Am forced to feed my spirits' greed

Upon the husks of retrospection.
And lo! to-night the phantom light
That as a sprite flits on the fender

Reveals a face whose girlish grace
Brings back the feeling, warm
and tender;
And all the while the old time smile
Plays on my visage,
grim and wrinkled,
As though, soubrette, your footfalls yet
Upon
my rusty heart-strings tinkled.
THE MONSTROUS PLEASANT BALLAD OF THE TAYLOR
PUP.
Now lithe and listen, gentles all,
Now lithe ye all and hark
Unto a
ballad I shall sing
About Buena Park.
Of all the wonders happening there
The strangest hap befell
Upon a

famous April morn,
As you I now shall tell.
It is about the Taylor pup
And of his mistress eke,
And of the
pranking time they had
That I would fain to speak.
FITTE THE FIRST.
The pup was of a noble mein
As e'er you gazed upon;
They called
his mother Lady
And his father was a Don.
And both his mother and his sire
Were of the race Bernard--
The
family famed in histories
And hymned of every bard.
His form was of exuberant mold,
Long, slim and loose of joints;

There never was a pointer-dog
So full as he of points.
His hair was like a yellow fleece,
His eyes were black and kind,

And like a nodding, gilded plume
His tail stuck up behind.
His bark was very, very fierce
And fierce his appetite,
Yet was it
only things to eat
That he was prone to bite.
But in that one particular
He was so passing true
That never did he
quit a meal
Until he had got through.
Potatoes, biscuits, mush or hash,
Joint, chop, or chicken limb--
So
long as it was edible,
'Twas all the same to him!
And frequently when Hunger's pangs
Assailed that callow pup,
He
masticated boots and gloves
Or chewed a door-mat up.
So was he much beholden of
The folk that him did keep;
They
loved him when he was awake
And better still asleep.
FITTE THE SECOND.

Now once his master lingering o'er
His breakfast coffee-cup,

Observed unto his doting spouse:
"You ought to wash the pup!"
"That shall I do this very day,"
His doting spouse replied;
"You will
not know the pretty thing
When he is washed and dried.
"But tell me, dear, before you go
Unto your daily work,
Shall I use
Ivory soap on him,
Or Colgate, Pears' or Kirk?"
"Odzooks, it matters not a whit--
They all are good to use!
Take
Pearline, if it pleases you--
Sapolio, if you choose!
"Take any soap, but take the pup
And also water take,
And mix the
three discreetly up
Till they a lather make.
"Then mixing these constituent parts,
Let nature take her way,"

With such advice that sapient sir
Had nothing more to say.
Then fared he to his daily toil
All in the Board of Trade,
While
Mistress Taylor for that bath
Due preparations made.
FITTE THE THIRD.
She whistled gayly to the pup
And called him by his name,
And
presently the guileless thing
All unsuspecting came.
But when she shut the bath-room door
And caught him as catch-can,

And dove him in that odious tub,
His sorrows then began.
How did that callow, yellow thing
Regret that April morn--
Alas!
how bitterly he rued
The day that he was born!
Twice and again, but all in vain
He lifted up his wail;
His voice was
all the pup could lift,
For thereby hangs this tale.
'Twas by that tail she held him down
And presently she spread
The

creamery lather on his back,
His stomach and his head.
His ears hung down in sorry wise,
His eyes were, oh! so sad--
He
looked as though he just had lost
The only friend he had.
And higher yet the water rose,
The lather still increased,
And sadder
still the countenance
Of that poor martyred beast!
Yet all this time his mistress spoke
Such artful words of cheer
As
"Oh, how nice!" and "Oh, how clean!"
And "There's a patient dear!"
At last the trial had an end,
At last the pup was free;
She threw
awide the bath-room door--
"Now get you gone!" quoth she.
FITTE THE FOURTH.
Then from that tub and from that room
He gat with vast ado;
At
every hop he gave a shake
And--how the water flew!
He paddled down the winding stairs
And to the parlor hied,

Dispensing pools of foamy suds
And slop on every side.
Upon the carpet then he rolled
And brushed against the wall,
And,
horror!