Rippling Rhymes | Page 6

cowherd's cot; the
cowherd's wife was baking pies, and had her oven smoking hot.
"You watch these pies," exclaimed the frau; "I have to chase myself
outdoors, and see what ails the spotted cow, the way she bawls around
and roars."
King Alfred said he'd watch the pies; then started thinking of the Danes,
who fooled him with their tricks and lies, and put his bleeding realm in
chains. He studied plans to gain his own, fair visions rose before his
eyes; he'd hew a pathway to his throne--and he forgot the matron's pies.
And then the cowherd's wife came in; she smelled the smoke, she gave
a shout; she biffed him with the rolling pin, and cried: "Ods fish, you
useless lout! You are not worth the dynamite 'twould take to blow you
off the map! Your head is not upholstered right--you are a worthless
trifling chap!"
When on his throne King Alfred sat, that woman had an inward ache;
she chewed the feathers from her hat because she'd made so bad a
break.
It isn't safe, my friends, to say that any man's a failure flat because he

cannot shovel hay, or climb a tree, or skin a cat. The man who's
awkward with a saw, who cannot hammer in a nail, may in the future
practice law and fill his bins with shining kale. The ne'er-do-well who
cannot cook the luscious egg his hen has laid, may yet sit down and
write a book that makes the big best sellers fade. The man who blacks
your boots today, and envies you your rich cigar, next year may have
the right of way while touring in his private car.
It isn't safe at men to jeer however awkwardly they tread; they yet may
find their proper sphere--no man's a failure till he's dead.

LIFE'S INJUSTICE
The learned man labors in his lair, and trains his telescope across a
million leagues of air, among the stars to grope. He would increase the
little store of knowledge we possess, and so he toils forever more, and
often in distress. His whiskers and his hair are long, and in the zephyrs
wave, because--alas! such things are wrong--he can't afford a shave.
His trousers bag about the knees, his ancient coat's a botch; his shoes
allow his feet to freeze, he bears a dollar watch. And when the grocer's
store he seeks to buy a can of hash, in frigid tones the merchant speaks:
"I'll have to have the cash!" And when he's dead a hundred years the
people will arise, and praise the man who found new spheres cavorting
through the skies. The children in the public schools will learn to bless
his name, and guide their studies by his rules, and glory in his fame.
And in the graveyard, where he went unhonored by the town, a big fat
marble monument will hold the wise man down.
The low-brow spars a dozen rounds, before an audience, and he is
loaded down with pounds, and shillings, crowns and pence. Where'er
he goes the brawny Goth is lionized by all, like Caesar, when he cut a
swath along the Lupercal. Promoters grovel at his feet, and offer heaps
of scads, if he will condescend to meet some other bruising lads. The
daily journals print his face some seven columns wide, call him the
glory of the race, the nation's hope and pride. And having thus become
our boast, the wonder of our age, he battles with his larynx most, and

elevates the stage. In fifty years when people speak the savant's name
with pride, the pug's renown you'll vainly seek--it with its owner died.
There may be consolation there for him who bravely tries to solve great
problems in his lair, and make the world more wise; but when the
world is really wise--may that day come eftsoons!--we'll give the men
of learning pies, and give the fighters prunes.

THE POLITICIAN
I will not say that blade is black, nor yet that white is white; for rash
assertions oft come back, and put us in a plight. Some people hold that
black is white, and some that white is black; to me the neutral course
looks right; I take the middle track. If I should say that black is white,
and white is black, today, some one would mix the two
tonight--tomorrow they'd be gray. In politics I wish to thrive, and
swiftly forge ahead, so dare not say that I'm alive, nor swear that I am
dead. You say that fishes climb the trees, that cows on wings do fly, I
can't dispute such facts as these, so patent to the eye; with any man I
will agree, no odds what he defends, if he will only vote for me, and