John Smith, U.S.A. | Page 9

hair--?These things baffle my description;?I should have a fit conniption?If I tried--so I forbear!
May be Lydia had her betters;?Anyway, this man of letters?Took that charmer as his pick;?Glad--yes, glad I am to know it!?I, a fin de siecle poet,?Sympathize with Lydia Dick!
Often in my arbor shady?I fall thinking of that lady?And the pranks she used to play;?And I'm cheered--for all we sages?Joy when from those distant ages?Lydia dances down our way.
Otherwise some folks might wonder?With good reason why in thunder?Learned professors, dry and prim,?Find such solace in the giddy?Pranks that Horace played with Liddy?Or that Liddy played on him.
Still this world of ours rejoices?In those ancient singing voices,?And our hearts beat high and quick,?To the cadence of old Tiber?Murmuring praise of roistering Liber?And of charming Lydia Dick.
Still, Digentia, downward flowing,?Prattleth to the roses blowing?By the dark, deserted grot;?Still, Soracte, looming lonely,?Watcheth for the coming only?Of a ghost that cometh not.
THE TIN BANK.
Speaking of banks, I'm bound to say?That a bank of tin is far the best,?And I know of one that has stood for years?In a pleasant home away out west.?It has stood for years on the mantelpiece?Between the clock and the Wedgwood plate--?A wonderful bank, as you'll concede?When you've heard the things I'll now relate.
This bank was made of McKinley tin,?Well soldered up at sides and back;?But it didn't resemble tin at all,?For they'd painted it over an iron black.?And that it really was a bank?'Twas an easy thing to see and say,?For above the door in gorgeous red?Appeared the letters B-A-N-K!
The bank had been so well devised?And wrought so cunningly that when?You put your money in at the hole?It couldn't get out of that hole again!?Somewhere about that stanch, snug thing?A secret spring was hid away,?But _where_ it was or _how it_ worked--?Excuse me, please, but I will not say.
Thither, with dimpled cheeks aglow,?Came pretty children oftentimes,?And, standing up on stool or chair,?Put in their divers pence and dimes.?Once Uncle Hank came home from town?After a cycle of grand events,?And put in a round, blue, ivory thing,?He said was good for 50 cents!
The bank went clinkety-clinkety-clink,?And larger grew the precious sum?Which grandma said she hoped would prove?A gracious boon to heathendom!?But there were those--I call no names--?Who did not fancy any plan?That did not in some wise involve?The candy and banana man.
Listen; once when the wind went "Yooooooo!"?And the raven croaked in the tangled tarn--?When, with a wail, the screech-owl flew?Out of her lair in the haunted barn--?There came three burglars down the road--?Three burglars skilled in arts of sin,?And they cried: "What's this? Aha! Oho!"?And straightway tackled the bank of tin.
They burgled from half-past ten p.m.,?Till the village bell struck four o'clock;?They hunted and searched and guessed and tried--?But the little tin bank would not unlock!?They couldn't discover the secret spring!?So, when the barn-yard rooster crowed,?They up with their tools and stole away?With the bitter remark that they'd be blowed!
Next morning came a sweet-faced child?And reached her dimpled hand to take?A nickel to send to the heathen poor?And a nickel to spend for her stomach's sake.?She pressed the hidden secret spring,?And lo! the bank flew open then?With a cheery creak that seemed to say:?"I'm glad to see you; come again!"
If you were I, and if I were you,?What would we keep our money in??In a downtown bank of British steel,?Or an at-home bank of McKinley tin??Some want silver and some want gold,?But the little tin bank that wants the two?And is run on the double standard plan--?Why, that is the bank for me and you!
IN NEW ORLEANS
'Twas in the Crescent city not long ago befell?The tear-compelling incident I now propose to tell;?So come, my sweet collector friends, and listen while I sing Unto your delectation this brief, pathetic thing--?No lyric pitched in vaunting key, but just a requiem?Of blowing twenty dollars in by 9 o'clock a.m.
Let critic folk the poet's use of vulgar slang upbraid,?But, when I'm speaking by the card, I call a spade a spade; And I, who have been touched of that same mania, myself,?Am well aware that, when it comes to parting with his pelf, The curio collector is so blindly lost in sin?That he doesn't spend his money--he simply blows it in!
In Royal Street (near Conti) there's a lovely curio-shop, And there, one balmy, fateful morn, it was my chance to stop: To stop was hesitation--in a moment I was lost--?That kind of hesitation does not hesitate at cost:?I spied a pewter tankard there, and, my! it was a gem--?And the clock in old St. Louis told the hour of 8 a.m.!
Three quaint Bohemian bottles, too, of yellow and of green, Cut in archaic fashion that I ne'er before had seen;?A lovely, hideous platter wreathed about with pink and rose, With its curious depression into which the gravy flows;?Two dainty silver salters--oh,