The Collected Works | Page 7

was old, and her hair was gold,?And her eye was a blue cerulean;?And the name she said when she turned her head?Was not in the least like "Julian."
THE MAN WHO COULD WRITE
Shun--shun the Bowl! That fatal, facile drink?Has ruined many geese who dipped their quills in 't;?Bribe, murder, marry, but steer clear of Ink?Save when you write receipts for paid-up bills in 't.
There may be silver in the "blue-black"--all?I know of is the iron and the gall.
Boanerges Blitzen, servant of the Queen,?Is a dismal failure--is a Might-have-been.?In a luckless moment he discovered men?Rise to high position through a ready pen.?Boanerges Blitzen argued therefore--"I,?With the selfsame weapon, can attain as high."?Only he did not possess when he made the trial,?Wicked wit of C-lv-n, irony of L--l.
[Men who spar with Government need, to back their blows,?Something more than ordinary journalistic prose.]
Never young Civilian's prospects were so bright,?Till an Indian paper found that he could write:?Never young Civilian's prospects were so dark,?When the wretched Blitzen wrote to make his mark.?Certainly he scored it, bold, and black, and firm,?In that Indian paper--made his seniors squirm,?Quoted office scandals, wrote the tactless truth--?Was there ever known a more misguided youth??When the Rag he wrote for praised his plucky game,?Boanerges Blitzen felt that this was Fame;?When the men he wrote of shook their heads and swore,?Boanerges Blitzen only wrote the more:
Posed as Young Ithuriel, resolute and grim,?Till he found promotion didn't come to him;?Till he found that reprimands weekly were his lot,?And his many Districts curiously hot.
Till he found his furlough strangely hard to win,?Boanerges Blitzen didn't care to pin:?Then it seemed to dawn on him something wasn't right--?Boanerges Blitzen put it down to "spite";
Languished in a District desolate and dry;?Watched the Local Government yearly pass him by;?Wondered where the hitch was; called it most unfair.

That was seven years ago--and he still is there!
MUNICIPAL
"Why is my District death-rate low?"?Said Binks of Hezabad.?"Well, drains, and sewage-outfalls are?"My own peculiar fad.
"I learnt a lesson once, It ran?"Thus," quoth that most veracious man:--
It was an August evening and, in snowy garments clad,?I paid a round of visits in the lines of Hezabad;?When, presently, my Waler saw, and did not like at all,?A Commissariat elephant careering down the Mall.
I couldn't see the driver, and across my mind it rushed?That that Commissariat elephant had suddenly gone musth.
I didn't care to meet him, and I couldn't well get down,?So I let the Waler have it, and we headed for the town.
The buggy was a new one and, praise Dykes, it stood the strain, Till the Waler jumped a bullock just above the City Drain;?And the next that I remember was a hurricane of squeals,?And the creature making toothpicks of my five-foot patent wheels.
He seemed to want the owner, so I fled, distraught with fear, To the Main Drain sewage-outfall while he snorted in my ear-- Reached the four-foot drain-head safely and, in darkness and despair, Felt the brute's proboscis fingering my terror-stiffened hair.
Heard it trumpet on my shoulder--tried to crawl a little higher-- Found the Main Drain sewage outfall blocked, some eight feet up, with mire; And, for twenty reeking minutes, Sir, my very marrow froze, While the trunk was feeling blindly for a purchase on my toes!
It missed me by a fraction, but my hair was turning grey?Before they called the drivers up and dragged the brute away.
Then I sought the City Elders, and my words were very plain. They flushed that four-foot drain-head and--it never choked again!
You may hold with surface-drainage, and the sun-for-garbage cure, Till you've been a periwinkle shrinking coyly up a sewer.
I believe in well-flushed culverts. . . .
This is why the death-rate's small; And, if you don't believe me, get shikarred yourself. That's all.
A CODE OF MORALS
Lest you should think this story true?I merely mention I?Evolved it lately. 'Tis a most?Unmitigated misstatement.
Now Jones had left his new-wed bride to keep his house in order, And hied away to the Hurrum Hills above the Afghan border,?To sit on a rock with a heliograph; but ere he left he taught His wife the working of the Code that sets the miles at naught.
And Love had made him very sage, as Nature made her fair;?So Cupid and Apollo linked , per heliograph, the pair.?At dawn, across the Hurrum Hills, he flashed her counsel wise-- At e'en, the dying sunset bore her husband's homilies.
He warned her 'gainst seductive youths in scarlet clad and gold, As much as 'gainst the blandishments paternal of the old;?But kept his gravest warnings for (hereby the ditty hangs)?That snowy-haired Lothario, Lieutenant-General Bangs.
'Twas General Bangs, with Aide and Staff, who tittupped on the way, When they beheld a heliograph tempestuously at play.?They thought of Border risings, and of stations sacked and burnt-- So stopped to take the message down--and this is what they learnt--
"Dash dot dot, dot,