Rippling Rhymes | Page 3

must take a massive pail, loaded up
with milk denatured, with a dash of Adam's ale, and go down among
the calfkins as the lion tamer goes 'mong the monarchs of the jungle, at
the famous three-ring shows; and the calves are fierce and hungry, and
they haven't sense to wait, till he gets a good position and has got his
bucket straight; and they act as though they hadn't e'en a glimmering of

sense, for they climb upon his shoulders ere he is inside the fence, and
they butt him in the stomach, and they kick him everywhere, till he
thinks he'd give a nickel for a decent chance to swear; then they all get
underneath him and capsize him in the mud, and the milk runs down
his whiskers and his garments in a flood, and you really ought to see
him when he goes back to his home quoting divers pagan authors and
the bards of ancient Rome. And he murmurs while he's washing mud
off at the kitchen sink: "What we need is a contraption that will teach
the calves to drink!"
We've machinery for planting, we've machines to reap and thrash, and
the housewife has an engine that will grind up meat for hash; we've
machines to do our washing and to wring the laundered duds, we've
machines for making cider and to dig the Burbank spuds; all about the
modern farmstead you may hear the levers clink, but we're shy of a
contrivance that will teach the calves to drink!

THE STRONG MEN
Behold the man of muscle, who wears the victor's crown! In gorgeous
scrap and tussle he pinned the others down. His brawn stands out in
hummocks, he like a lion treads; he sits on foemen's stomachs and
stands them on their heads. The strong men of all regions, the mighty
men of note, come here in beefy legions to try to get his goat; with
cordial smiles he greets them, and when we've raised a pot, upon the
mat he meets them and ties them in a knot. From Russia's frozen acres,
from Grecian ports they sail, and Turkey sends her fakers to gather in
the kale; old brooding Europe breeds them, these mighty men of brawn;
our Strong Man takes and kneads them, and puts their hopes in pawn.
Behold this puny fellow, this meek and humble chap! No doubt he'd
show up yellow if he got in a scrap. His face is pale and sickly, he's
weak of arm and knee; if trouble came he'd quickly shin up the nearest
tree. No hale man ever loves him; he stirs the sportsman's wrath; the
whole world kicks and shoves him and shoos him from the path. For
who can love a duffer so pallid, weak and thin, who seems resigned to

suffer and let folks rub it in? Yet though he's down to zero in
fellow-men's esteem, this fellow is a hero and that's no winter dream.
Year after year he's toiling, as toiled the slaves of Rome, to keep the pot
a-boiling in his old mother's home. Through years of gloom and
sickness he kept the wolf away; for him no tailored slickness, for him
no brave array; for him no cheerful vision of wife and kids a few; for
him no dreams Elysian--just toil, the long years through! Forever trying,
straining, to sidestep debtors' woes, unnoticed, uncomplaining, the little
Strong Man goes!

THE SNOWY DAY
I like to watch the children play, upon a wintry, snowy day; like little
elves they run about, and leap and slide, and laugh and shout. This side
of heaven can there be such pure and unmixed ecstacy? I lean upon ye
rustic stile, and watch the children with a smile, and think upon a
vanished day, when I, as joyous, used to play, when all the world
seemed young and bright, and every hour had its delight; and, as I
brush away a tear, a snowball hits me in the ear.

THE POOR MAN'S CLUB
The poor man's club is a genial place--if the poor man has the price;
there's a balmy smile on the barkeep's face, and bottles of goods on ice;
the poor man's club is a place designed to brighten our darkened lives,
and send us home, when we're halfway blind, in humor to beat our
wives. So hey for the wicker demi-john and the free-lunch brand of
grub! We'll wassail hold till the break of dawn, we friends of the poor
man's club! It's here we barter our bits of news in our sweat stained
hand-me-downs; it's here we swallow the children's shoes and the
housewives hats and gowns. It's here we mortgage the house and lot,
the horse and the muley cow; the poor man's club