An alphabet of history

985
N4-58

N ALPHABET
of HISTORY

o

WORDS by WILBUR D. NESBJT
PICTURES by ELLSWORTH YOUNG

AN ALPHABET
OF HISTORY

77?e Words by Wilbur

D •Nesbit - The Pictures
bt/ Ellsworth

Who frets about the mysier.x
Enshrouding all of historx
On reading this will, maybe, see
Weve made it plain as A, B.C.

P&u/JE/cter ancf Company

, San Francisco

ACKNOWLEDGMENT

In their original form, the contents of this
book appeared in the Chicago Sunday Tribune,
which newspaper is hereby thanked for
the privilege of reproducing this Alphabet

Copyright, 1905

by Paul Elder and Company

San Francisco

The Tomoye Press
San Francisco

LEXANDER
THE GREAT

Alexander the Great was a victim of fate,

And he sighed there was naught to delight him

When he brandished his sword and defiantly roared
And could not get a country to fight him.

All the armies he'd chased, all the lands laid to
waste,

And he clamored for further diversions ;
And our history speaks of his grip on the Greeks

And his hammerlock hold on the Persians.

Though the Gordian knot, cut in two, in a spot

In his palace was labeled a relic,
Though Bucephalus, stuffed, gave him fame, he was
huffed —

He was grouchy and grumpy, was Aleck.

And the cause of his woe, he would have you to
know,

Was the fact that he never was able
To conduct a big scrap that a versatile chap

Of a war correspondent would cable.

'Stead of being quite glad, he would grow very sad
When he told of the fellows who'd fought him,

As he thought of the lack of the clicking kodak
In the hands of a man to " snapshot " him.

We are told that he wept, and in dolefulness crept
Through his palace — the reason is hinted:

There were not at that time magazines for a dime,
And his articles could not be printed.

Though it may seem unkind, ere his life we've

outlined,

We must say in some ways he was hateful ;
And in truth, we have heard he went back on his

word,
And was not Alexander the Grateful.

340146

RUTUS

Back in the time of Rome sublime,
There lived great Julius Caesar

Who wore the crown with haughty

frown
And was a frosty geezer.

Three times, they say, upon the way
Called Lupercal, they fetched it

For him to wear, but then and there

He said they should have stretched it.

And we are told that Jule was cold

And frigid as Alaska,
Ambitious, too, — that would not do

For Cassius and Casca.

They told their friends: "It all depends

On having things to suit us.
We think that Jule is much too cool ;

Let us conspire with Brutus."

They furthermore let out this roar :
" Shall Caesar further scoff us ?

Next week, they say, he'll have his way
About the Rome postoffice."

With dirk and sword in togas stored —
You know those times they wore 'em —

They made a muss of Ju-li-us
One morning in the Forum.

With " Et tu, Brute ? " J. C. grew mute.

( Some claim it's " Et tu, Bru-te " ;
We mention it both whole and split

As is our bounden duty.)

Mark Antony arose, and he

Talked some, — we shall not quote it;
We've understood 'twas not as good

As when Bill Shakespeare wrote it.

Then Brutus skipped lest he be nipped —

And since his dissolution
He's been accused and much abused

In schools of elocution.

HRISTOMER
COLUMBUS

When Christopher Columbus stood the egg upon

its end,
He solved a weighty problem that no one could

comprehend —
Perhaps it was the puzzle whose solution clearly

showed
The psychologic motives of the hen that crossed

the road.
Perhaps cold storage minstrels never might have

heard of this

If it hadn't been for Chris.

Columbus packed his little grip and got upon the

train
And went to see that noble man, King Ferdinand

of Spain.

Result: He found America — oh, do not idly nod,
For if it hadn't been for this we couldn't go abroad !
Just think of all the travel and the voyages we'd

miss

If it hadn't been for Chris.

Columbus found America and won a lot of fame —
Nobody ever thought to ask him how he knew its

name;
Nobody ever booked him for some lectures to

declare
In eloquent assertions how he knew the land was

there.
Today we might be savages, unknowing modern

bliss,

If it hadn't been for Chris.

He landed near Havana, and he said: "It seems

to me
That sometime in the future little Cuby shall be

free."
His vision was prophetic — far adown the future's

track
He saw the dauntless Hobson and the sinking

Merrimac.
We might have still been tyros in the ethics of

the kiss

If it hadn't been for Chris.

Today there are big cities and big buildings named

for him,

And yet he was so poor that once he thought he'd have to swim
To find this wondrous country, for he was so badly broke ;
But Isabella nobly put her watch and ring in soak.
Who knows but Isabella never might have thought of this
If it hadn't been for Chris ?

IOGENES

Diogenes lived in a tub

His fellows analyzing ;
These words were carved upon his club:

" First Class Philosophizing."
If any question came his way
Involving people's morals,
The things that he felt moved to say
Were sure to start some quarrels.
In fact, his tub became a booth
In which he dealt in wholesale truth.

This world was but a fleeting show —

He knew a lot about it;
When he was told a thing was so

He then began to doubt it.
He seldom left his narrow home —

Not even on a Sunday ;
The only time that he would roam

Abroad was on a Monday.
He had to roam then, anyway,
For that, you know, is washing day.

Society, with all its sham,

Gave him a paroxysm ;
He always spoke in epigram

And thought in aphorism.
One day he took his lantern down

And polished it and lit it —
But first he frowned a peevish frown

And growled : " The wick don't fit it."
And then, with pessimistic scan,
He sought to find an honest man.

Diogenes has long been dead ;

His search was not well heeded,
For no historian has said

If ever he succeeded.
But there's this thought for you and me:

It would not be quite pleasant
If on that quest the sage should be

With his fierce light, at present.
For, if he were, one may but think
How much that light would make him blink.

URIPIDES

Euripides, of ancient Greece,

Excelled in things dramatic ;
He could sit down and write a piece

Mild tempered or emphatic;
The dramatists of modern days —

No matter how much they write —
Can never equal Rippy's ways,
For he was quite a playwright.

When Rippy took his pen in hand

The scenes would flow like magic ;
Though humor came at his command

His penchant was the tragic ;
He often wrote a little speech

That was extremely pleasant —
His jests were lasting — all and each

Are still used at the present.

Euripides was serious —

He thought he had a mission.
He said, "By writing thus and thus

I'll elevate the Grecian."
However, though he oft produced

His works in manner spurty,
He never wrote a thing to boost

The vogue of ten, twent', thirty.

In fact, his works could have been played

In goodly style with no girls —
He never used the soubrette maid

Or based his play on show girls ;
And, this for old Euripides :

In none of all his dramas
Did he observe the modern pleas

For chorus in pajamas.

Euripides was Athens' Fitch

Or her Augustus Thomas —
It's really hard to say just which,

But he was full of promise.
It's time that Rippy had his due

And got his share of glory,
For royalties he never knew

And no press agent's story.

RANKLIN

Fame twined a wreath on Franklin's brow

A-many years ago —
And yet, how many people now

The reason for it know?
Was it because he wisely wrote

Poor Richard's Almanac
( One of the few, we pause to note,
Which testimonials lack)?

Was Franklin's fame the sure result

Of his philosophy ?
(No mental cure or psychic cult

Or Great Uplift had he.)
Was it because for years and years

He was a diplomat?
Why, no. What person ever hears

About such things as that?

Then what did wise Ben Franklin do

That he should merit fame?
That each edition of " Who's Who "

In bold type puts his name?
He flew his kite; he had the key

His front door to unlock —
Like countless other men, then he

Acquired a sudden shock.

The trolley cars and dynamos

And incandescent light
And buzzing fan which coolness blows

All date from Franklin's kite.
But, what an oversight of Fame !

Ben Franklin's wife — 'twas she,
That thoughtful, gentle, kindly dame,

Who let him have the key.

ALILEI
GALILEO

Galilei Galileo was an early man of

science ;

He was happy when inventing, or dis
cussing an appliance ;
Pendulums, he found by study, were precise in

every wobble —

Showing how old Father Time went in his never-
ending hobble.

Galilei Galileo the thermometer invented

And informed the gaping public what its figures

represented.
"O you foolish Galileo," cried the public, "you

shall rue it !
Why get up a thing to tell us we are hot ? We

always knew it."

Galilei Galileo took a tube and got some lenses
And discovered things that made him rather

disbelieve his senses ;
He would point his telescope up to the sky and

then he'd scan it,
Then go in to breakfast smiling, for he'd found

another planet.

Galilei Galileo viewed the luminary solar

(That's the sun) and found it spotted on the belt
and regions polar;

But he didn't figure out that when the sun was
thickly freckled

Then the world with lights and fusses was continu
ally speckled.

Galilei Galileo wrote a thing and then denounced

it —
But we often read his name and wonder how the

man pronounced it.
Maybe when he tried to he was all at sixes and

at sevens,
Which is why he turned his studies to the dim

and distant heavens.

Galilei Galileo ! What a musical cognomen !
Possibly some bright librettist will find in this

name an omen
That presages fortune for him, and the stage will

pay what we owe
To that honest old star gazer, Galilei Galileo.

IPPOCRATES

Hippocrates was father to an awful lot of
bother, for 'tis claimed that as to medi
cine he was the pioneer,

That but for him the surgeon or the latter-
day chirurgeon might never have been
tinkering the human running gear.

Hippocrates' diploma never threw him into coma
in his efforts to decipher what its classic
diction said,

For when he was seeking practice — long ago —
the simple fact is that the Latin tongue was
common and was very far from dead.

He often growled, " Dad gum it ! " when he felt the

glossy summit of his head, which was as bald

as any shiny billiard ball —
But old Hip had to endure it, for he knew he

couldn't cure it, and that once his hair was

falling, why, he had to let it fall.

He was written up by Plato (who was quite a hot

potato when it came to mental effort, for you

know he reasoned well);
Plato praised his diagnosis, called him healing's

patient Moses, and though facts were hard to

gather, found a goodly lot to tell.

Hippocrates had knowledge, though he didn't go to
college ; he could speak of all diseases that he
knew, in Latin terms

( Still, 'twas only second nature to affect that nomen
clature), but he never even thought of, much
less heard of, any germs.

Streptococcus or bacillus such as get in us and

kill us to Hippocrates were always undiscovered

and unknown,
And the grim appendicitis which today is sure to

fright us, was by Dr. Hip considered but a

stomach-achic groan.

Were he living at this moment, would the world
be in a foment ? Would physicians of the
present take him out to see the town ?

From New Jersey clear to Joppa not a one would
call him "Papa," and his theories and treat
ments would be greeted with a frown.

We must say that he was clever, and that in one

way, however, he resembled all the others who

are treating human ills —
He was constantly complaining that in spite of all

his training he could never cure his patients

of the trait of dodging bills.

AGO

Ilago as a villain was a master of his craft,
And yet he did not work at all as

modern villains do ;
No one can rise and say that bold lago

hoarsely laughed
When some one demonstrated that his stories

were untrue.
He did not swagger on the stage in evening

clothes, and mutter,
Nor bite his finger nails in baffled anger now

and then;
He never turned and left the stage with nothing

else to utter

Except : " Aha ! Proud beauty ! I shall not be
foiled again!"

lago did not hover near the old deserted mill
To hurl the daring hero in the waters of the

race;
He never frowned and ground his teeth and burned

the hidden will
Or kidnapped any children just to complicate

the case,
lago was not like the villains that we have at

present ;
He didn't even try to scowl or to look like the

part,
lago as a villain was continually pleasant,

And never gave the notion that he had a stony
heart.

Othello was his victim — and lago's work was good,
But still lago doesn't seem to get the proper

praise ;

Othello, as the hero — as all proper heroes should —
Stood calmly in the spotlight and corralled the

wreathing bays.
Since then there is no villain of the art of good

lago —

At least we haven't seen an actor who ap
proached him yet ;
The villains we have noticed from Galveston to

Chicago

Have hissed through black mustaches and have
smoked the cigaret.

ONSON

O rare Ben Jonson, you who wrote

"To Celia,"
Presager of that later note,

" Bedelia,"

To you, rare Ben, our hat we raise
For all your poems and your plays.

You knew, forsooth, if Shakespeare's work

Was taken,
Like copies by a scrawling clerk,

From Bacon;

You would have known of that flimflam
Without a hidden cryptogram.

O rare Ben Jonson, with your pen

You labored,
And with brave lords and gentlemen

You neighbored —
You never turned out feeble farce
In sentences that would not parse.

To managers you ne'er were made

To grovel,
And, Ben, you never called a spade

A shovel —

Where you wrote sentences risque*
We now have costumes very gay.

O rare Ben Jonson, when you asked

That lady
To drink, her name you never masked

As " Sadie,"

Nor did you call her "Creole Belle"
Or half the song names we might tell.

"Drink to me only with thine eyes!"

Your sighing
Showed you no steins of any size

Were buying.

But from the way the stanzas run,
You, rare Ben Jonson, were well done.

IDD

Oh, William Kidd was a pirate bold,

Yo ho, my lads, yo ho!
He sailed the seas in search of gold,

Yo ho, my lads, yo ho !
He sailed on both sides of the line,
The skull and bones he made his sign;
Where he found wealth, he said: "That's mine!"
Three centuries ago.

Oh, William Kidd was a pirate bad,

Three centuries ago,
A very dark repute he had —

Yo ho, my lads, yo ho !
He'd board a ship and take its hoard,
Then: "Walk the plank!" he fiercely roared,
"The ship is all that I can board,"

Yo ho, my lads, yo ho!

Oh, William Kidd was a pirate great,

Yo ho, my lads, yo ho !
He said: "I'll rob you while you wait" —

Three centuries ago.
He had a long, low, rakish craft
With Long Toms both before and aft,
And wickedly and loud he laughed,

Yo ho, my lads, yo ho!

Oh, William Kidd was a pirate big,

Yo ho, my lads, yo ho !
He feared no frigate, bark or brig,

Yo ho, my lads, yo ho!

And while his grim flag flapped and tossed
Above the ship that Bill Kidd bossed,
His victims knew just how they lost,

Three centuries ago.

Oh, William Kidd was a pirate then,

Three centuries ago.
If he should come to life again —

Yo ho, my lads, yo ho !
The chances are that he would just
Go out and organize a trust —
He knew the way to raise the dust

Three centuries ago.

UCULLUS

Lucullus was a fighter for a portion of

his life ;
He won the bay and laurel by his

prowess in the strife.
He came back home a hero (and no doubt, just as

today,
They named a cocktail for him ere they looked

the other way).
But when Lucullus noticed he was losing grips on

fame,
He struck a happy notion to perpetuate his name.

He took to giving dinners in a palace he had

built —
'Tis said that lots was eaten and a sea of wine

was spilt ;
That guests might order anything in dishes old

or new

•And get the very rarest, and a second order, too!
Quick lunches or course dinners — anything a man

could wish
In the line of drinks or dainties ; yet he was no

nouveatt riche.

Lucullus won great battles, victories that he might

boast,
Yet today we recollect him merely as a lavish

host.
It is said that once he ordered quite the richest

feast prepared
But no guests came to enjoy it, and the busy chef

was scared.
" Is nobody here for dinner ? " asked the flustered,

pestered chef.
"I am dining with Lucullus!" roared Lucullus. "Are

you deaf? "

But we think that one great reason for his never-
dying fame,

For the pure, unfading luster of his dinner-eating
name,

Is that though Lucullus feasted at a very great
expense

And sat down to simple breakfasts where the
health foods were immense,

He was gracious to his fellows, was considerate
of each,

And he never put his chestnuts in an after-dinner
speech.

EtHU-
SELAH

Methuselah lived long ago —

He was the Old Inhabitant
Those times, but never had a show;

His opportunities were scant.
Although he lived nine centuries

And three-score years and nine beside,
The times he saw were not like these,
A chance to spread he was denied.

He could not seek the corner store

And lunch on crackers, cheese and prunes,
And there display his helpful lore

Through mornings and through afternoons;
He could not talk about the days

When folks first saw the telegraph
Or telephone ; how their amaze

Made better posted people laugh.

Here,

He could not take the stranger out

To some tall building, then say :
An' for a good ways hereabout,

I used to shoot the bear and deer."
Skyscrapers were an unknown thing,

Excepting Babel, in his land,
And Babel only served to bring

Speech that he could not understand.

(Perhaps this Babel item is

Anachronistic; as to that
We'll say one pleasant thing was his:

He never had to rent a flat. ) „
Another joy in his career

Was this : nobody ever told
Methuselah the stated year

When he should be considered old.

At thirty-five he was not barred

From working if he wanted to;
He did not need a union card

His daily labors to pursue ;
And when his hair was snowy white

And age his manly form had bent,
Nobody called him young and bright

And ran him for vice-president.

EWTON

Now, Newton in the orchard felt an

apple strike his head.
"'Tis gravity! 'Tis gravity!" excit
edly he said.
Had you or I been sitting there

a-thinking of this earth,
As Newton was, and wondering about its size and

girth,
And just when we were figuring a long and heavy

sum,

The apple hit us on the mind and made our bald
spot numb!

We say, had you or I been there, as Newton was

that day,
Would there have been much gravity in what we

had to say ?

This shows how great it is to have a scientific mind —
An intellect that reaches out to see what it may find.
Perchance an ordinary man in such a circumstance
Would have got up and rubbed his head and done

a little dance,
And muttered things that gentle folks should

scarcely ever state,
And not concede the apple simply had to gravitate.

Again we say, if Newton's place was held by you or I,
Instead of gravity we might have thought of
apple pie.

You see (again we make the point that scientific

minds
Discover facts which any brain that's common

never finds),
You see, when Newton felt the jolt, his science

did not stop —
He simply meditated on "What made the apple

drop ? "

And while in cogitation deep beneath the tree he lay,
He mused: "It's odd that apples never drop the

other way."

Once more : " If you or I had been beneath the

apple tree,
We might have howled: "Who was it threw that

apple and hit me?"

To finish this, however, with becoming gravity,
We'll state that Newton lingered there beneath the

apple tree;

With logarithmic tables he discovered that the speed
At which the apple fell was based on whence it fell — indeed,
Had it dropped from the moon, we'll say, it would have grown so hot
That it would have been melted up before to earth it got.

Again, and finally, had you or I held Newton's seat,

We should, like he did, take the apple up and start to eat.

MAR

Old Omar, in a Tent he had to live,
Yet gave to Verse such Time as he

could give ;
Whereat the Critics rose and

Hurled at Him :

" The Stuff you write is only Tenta
tive."

Yet Khayyam never worried over that —
He kept his Troubles underneath his Hat

Except such Times as when he worked them up
Into an Apt and Pleasing Rubaiyat.

Fitzgerald, the Translator, took his Pen
And made a flowing Version; yes, and then

To show that he could keep it up a While,
Translated all the Rubaiyat again.

Now, is there any Home that Don't reveal
O. Khayyam's volume resting by " Lucille,"

Bound in Limp Leather, with each Edge uncut,
To show the Literary Sense we feel?

And is there any town from York to Butte
Wherein some Maiden fair don't Elocute

Through Khayyam's easy-speaking poetry,
With Musical Accomp'niment to suit?

Aye, verily! And where the Parodist

Who does not seek through all upon his List

And come back at the last to Khayyam's work
Each time to find New Chances he has missed?

A Good Cigar, a ready Fountain Pen
Or a Typewriter one can use, and then

A book of Omar whence to draw the Thought —
Oh, Parodies one will turn out again !

Some black initial letters here and there,
Perchance he also had E. Hubbard Hair— .

But anyhow old Khayyam set a Task
To fill all his Successors with despair !

EPYS

Perchance when he was working on

The diary that bears his name
In those far days, now dead and gone,
He never dreamed about his fame.
Yet now, from time to time, it is

Heard from 'most everybody's lips —
That magic, mellow name of his,

The soft and pleasing name of Pepys.

Again, when reading what he wrote,

We live anew that ancient time
(The book is one we often quote —

The cheap editions are a dime);
We mark his course through dingy streets

And climb with him the palace steps;
In fancy all of those one meets

Remark: "Why, there goes Mr. Pepys!"

He always had a seeing eye

And hearing ear, and what he saw
And what he heard he fain would try

To set down, but evade the law
And that is why in cipher dark

The tale originally creeps —
'Twas thus, also, he made his mark,

This man of truth and trouble, Pepys.

Throughout his life he had his griefs

And also had a little fun —
He kept his eye upon his chiefs

And tells the things they might have done
If they had not done what they did.

Ah, if each person now should keep his
Own diary and raise the lid

As did this honest Samuel Pepys!

And so, you see, he made a name

Whereon the critics sometimes pounce ;
It hardly ever sounds the same,

It is so easy to pronounce.
But still, there is an hour or so

Of pleasure for the man who dips
Into his book and comes to know

Good Samuel Pepys, Peps or Pips.

UINTILIAN

Quintilian, years and years ago,

Was It on oratory;
Demosthenes and Cicero

He studied con amore ;
He ran an elocution school

And taught the Roman lispers
The reason and the rote and rule

For requesting father, dear father, to come home
with me now, in most pathetic whispers.

'Twas he who showed that thus and thus

One should appear when stating
The last remarks of Spartacus

On ceasing gladiating.
(Perchance the word we just have used

Escaped your dictionary.
We mean when Spartacus refused

To be butchered to make a Roman holiday
exceedingly exciting and otherwise glad
some and merry.)

Quintilian's book on How to Speak

Is classic at this moment ;
It tells the speaker when to shriek

And when his rage to foment.
The boy who on commencement day

Cites Patrick Henry's speeches
Must do so in Quintilian's way

When a single order of liberty, with a supple
mental second choice of death, he beseeches.

The actor who would thrill the crowd

(A blood and marrow freezer)
By handing out in accents proud

"Mark Antony on Caesar,"
Must heed the rules set down by Quint.,

And so must he who rises
To heights of glowing fame by dint

Of the justly famous to be or not to be, center
of the stage, two spotlights sizzling, when
he as Hamlet soliloquizes.

Quintilian, we are fain to say,

Was It on oratory,
And even in this later day

Receives his share of glory,
Except when elocutionists

Our peace and comfort mangle,
By showing how fair Bessie's wrists

Were strained and bruised while swinging
around in the belfry the time she said the
curfew should not jangle.

ALEIGH

Sir Walter Raleigh was a man

Of excellent deportment;
He could advise a King or Khan

What going into court meant;
When Spenser wrote his Faerie Queene

Sir Walter Raleigh said it
Betrayed a wit both sharp and clean
(We wonder if he read it.).

Good Queen Elizabeth one day

Was out (perhaps for shopping),
And Raleigh chanced along the way

Where she in wrath was stopping.
" How can I get across that mud ? "

She asked; and in the muddle
Sir Walter showed his gentle blood —

His cloak soon bridged the puddle.

A smile replaced the good queen's frown,

She paused there for a minute
To set more straight the royal crown

(It had no hat pin in it).
And then she murmured low to Walt.:

"Sir, you shall see my tailor."
He answered: "If I'm worth my salt,

Good queen, make me a sailor!"

And so good Queen Elizabeth

Gave him a high position —
He drew his pay like drawing breath

And led an expedition
That sailed across the raging seas

For gold and slaves and cocoa,
And battled with the biting breeze

Along the Orinoco.

Alas! It may have been the cloak

That was in mire imbedded,
Or possibly some words he spoke

That made him be beheaded.
But let us learn this lesson here

From poor Sir Walter Raleigh:
The favor of the great, 'tis queer,

Oft has a grim finale.

HAKSPEARE

Shakspeare, as all of us have read,

Once asked : " What's in a name ? "
An alias for the rose, he said,

Would make it smell the same.
But Shakspeare was so frivolous —

Excuse us if we say
That it has always seemed to us
His work was mostly play.

As " Shaxpere," " Shakspere," " Shaikspeare," too,

His signature is found;
His autographs are much too few

To be passed all around.
This shows the cumulative worth

Of honest, solid fame ;
The bidders come from all the earth

To buy his misspelled name.

He dramatized the thrilling scene

Where Caesar met his end,
Where Casca, hungry, lank and lean,

And Brutus, Caesar's friend,
Stabbed swiftly with their daggers bright

When Julius came in reach —
Then Antony, thrilled at the sight,

Arose and made a speech.

No chorus girls were in his shows;

In them no "social queens"
Were given princely wage to pose

And dignify the scenes.
But there be those who say there are

Odd facts that can't be passed:
For instance, oft we see a star

With ciphers in the cast —

And this leads many to declare

That Bacon wrote the shows;
A cryptic secret hidden there

They say they will disclose.
It may be that each drama hoards

A Bacon cryptogram,
For often, proud upon the boards

There struts and strides a ham.

ELL

The tale of Tell is simply told ;

He would not heed the tyrant.
But, big and brave and bluffiy bold
He spurned the cold aspirant —
He simply came out plain and flat

And his own rights defended ;
He would not bow to Gessler's hat
Upon the pole suspended.

Then Gessler came upon the scene

And ordered Tell to knuckle;
Tell fixed him with his glances keen

And gave a scornful chuckle.
Then Gessler frowned and knit his brows

(A most portentous omen);
" Risk your boy's life or make those bows ! '

(We've lost the boy's cognomen.)

Tell smiled, and got his trusty bow,

Likewise his trusty arrow
(Now, William Tell, as you should know,

Could wing the fleeting sparrow
Or he could truly shoot the chutes) —

So Gessler said : " Now grapple
With this one fact — for you the boots

Unless you cleave the apple."

Did Tell succeed ? In your school books

The tale is very well told,
And Gessler looked some haughty looks-

When he heard what Bill Tell told.
" What did you hide this arrow for ? "

Asked Gessler of the wizard.
"I meant to split that apple, or

I'd have to harm your gizzard!"

That's all, except it shall endure

As acted by Salvini.
(But was it?) And the overture

Composed by one Rossini
Shall prove that Tell is not a myth

Concocted to deceive us.
We've seen the bow he did it with;

We hope you will believe us.

LYSSES

Unusually popular with mythologic misses,
And rather wont to wander when he

should have stayed at home,
We find is why our hero, the redoubtable

Ulysses,
Went rambling into trouble when he thought

that he would roam.

Penelope, good lady, left behind in their apartment,
Had trouble in her efforts to get cash to pay

the rent —
Telemachus, their scion, knew not then what being

smart meant ;

He should have helped his mamma, but he
never earned a cent.

Ulysses, in the meantime, found the land of the

Cyclopes,

And came within an ace of being made into a stew.
He drugged old Polyphemus, then skedaddled with:

" I hope 'e 's
Laid up with indigestion," and went onward

with his crew.
From there he ambled farther till he reached the

realm of Circe" ;

We translate rather freely from the Odyssean log:
" She proved to be a lady with no tenderness or

mercy,

Each comrade of Ulysses, for her sport, was
made a hog."

He got away, however, and he steered his trusty

ship so
That it would take him quickly where more

trouble might be found —
He grounded on the island of the nymph they

called Calypso,
And dallied in her presence till eight years had

rolled around.
Homesickness must have struck him not so many

years thereafter;
He sighed: "I think the time has come for me

to pull my freight."
The listeners had trouble when they tried to hold

their laughter

At thinking of how long it was before he knew
'twas late.

Penelope, fond woman, had been wooed by many

suitors ;

To each and every one of them she firmly whispered " No."
Ulysses, on appearing, changed the suitors into scooters —

He strode into the parlor and said : " Take your hats and go ! "
Old Homer tells us fully how Penelope received him,

And how, to give her pleasure, all these stories he would weave :
He also tells us solemnly Penelope believed him!

(That portion of the Odyssey we never can believe.)

ILLON

Villon — bard of the early times,
Familiarly called Francois —
'Twas he who juggled so with rhymes
That we regard him now with awe ;
His Pegasus knew "Gee" from "Haw"-
He drove with all a jockey's art
And ran each race without a flaw —
Villon gave these ballades their start.

Must he flee to some safer climes ?

Did hunger at his vitals gnaw?
Or was he jailed for varied crimes ?

In that he inspiration saw

And, pen held in a grimy paw
Would let his flashing fancy dart

Ofttimes in measures rather raw —
Villon gave these ballades their start.

His purse was ever bare of dimes;

He often felt the grip of law ;
Yet he, the jolliest of mimes,

Who slept most nights upon the straw

And wakened to the raucous caw
Of ravens, never shirked his part ;

He never stopped at fate to jaw —
Villon gave these ballades their start.

L'ENVOI

Princess, the moral's here to draw :

When poets go into the mart
The editors say coldly: "Pshaw!

Villon gave these ballades their start."

ATT

When Watt was but a little boy —
His papa's pride, his mama's joy —
He sat beside the kitchen fire
The bubbling teapot to admire;

And as he watched the hissing steam

He straightway then began to dream

Of what the vapor hot could do

If how to use it he but knew.

Eventually he devised

A neat invention which surprised

The people of that early day —

He made an engine, anyway.

This poor contrivance he improved

Until by it great loads were moved

And horses were displaced by rails,

While sidewheels took the place of sails.

Observe, my child, how one small thing
A wondrous lot of change will bring:
Because wise little Jimmy Watt
Could turn to some account his thought,
Today the trains go whizzing through
The land, and o'er the ocean blue
The mighty ships scoot night and day
From here to countries far away.

Great thanks are due to this James Watt,
Also to his mama's teapot,
By porters who on every trip
Hold up the tourist for a tip,
And also by that mighty mass
Of folks who travel on a pass,
And by the ones who rake in rocks
Through squeezes that they work in stocks.

But that it would like punning seem

We'd say Watt has the world's esteem

(But since we've said it that way now

We'll let the pun go, anyhow ).

But, somehow, when we chanced to stop

Beside some busy boiler shop,

We cannot say that peace was brought

To all of us by Jimmy Watt.

ANTIPPE

Xantippe was the lady who was wed to

Socrates —
And their life was not a grand, sweet

song;
'Twas a study — just a study — done in

all the minor keys

With the gloomy measures turned on strong.
When old Socrates was busy at the office, she

would wait

Till he ambled in at 3 a. m.

And she met him in the moonlight 'twixt the door
way and the gate —
Then the neighbors heard a lot from them.

But Socrates — he didn't mind when she pulled out

his hair,
When she would box his ears for him he didn't

seem to care —
In a manner bland and wise
He would then philosophize

On the Whyness of the Whichness of the Neither
Here Nor There.

Xantippe did the cooking, and (we have to tell the

truth ) —

Indigestion quickly seized on him,
And in one of her biscuits on a time he broke a tooth,

Yet he smiled across at wifey grim.
When she tried her hand at pastry was the only

time he spoke,

And of course he had to make a break —
'Twas perhaps the first appearance of the ever
lasting joke
On the pies that mother used to make.

Poor Socrates! He never even ducked his head

or dodged
But merely rubbed the spot whereon the flying

platter lodged,

Then he murmured : " Xanty, dear,
You have made a problem clear" —
Then he went to get the swelling on his cranium
massaged.

Xantippe wouldn't let him smoke at all about the

place,

And she wouldn't let him take a drink.
He never learned the value of a two-spot or an ace —

For 'most all that he could do was think.
Thus you see that though Xantippe has been

fiercely criticized,

Yet she really made her husband's fame,
For 'twas while she bossed him sorely that the

great man analyzed
All the subjects that have made his name.

Xantippe made him famous; but for her the man had been
Forgotten like the others of the time that he lived in.

" Oh, my darling, such a help ! "

He most gratefully would yelp
When she gave him an impression with a busy rolling-pin.

VETOT

There was a king of Yvetot,

And easy was his head,
Serene his rest — naught would suggest

The words so often said,
That crowned heads are not peaceful;

He never wore a frown —
He laughed away the night and day,
With gayly tilted crown.

The jester of his palace

Was never forced to work,
He never had to make things glad

With oily smile and smirk.
This jolly king of Yvetot

Had no need of his fool —
He made his own jests from the throne

And pleasure was his rule.

He never had a quarrel

With any other king;
" Why should we fight ? " he asked. " Delight

Is such an easy thing."
He told no one his troubles —

In truth, he reigned so well
No one could know, in fair Yvetot,

Of troubles fit to tell.

The little realm of Yvetot —

A wee spot on the map —
Has made a name secure in fame

Because of this rare chap
Who put his crown on sidewise

And lolled upon his throne
With scepter set so that it met

His active funny bone.

He was to war a stranger ;

His kingdom had no debt ;
Each of his laws possessed a clause

That barred out care and fret —
'Tis told that when expiring

He wasted his last breath
In one long laugh in life's behalf,

And thus went to his death.

There was a king of Yvetot —

There are such kings today ;
They never sigh for things gone by

But laugh along the way.
So, crown yourself with laughter,

Put pleasure on the throne,
And you'll possess in happiness

An Yvetot of your own.

ENOBIA

Zenobia was empress of the people of

Palmyra;
She tried to boss the army when she

should have stayed at home.
Aurelian, the soldier, led a sort of a hegira
Of armies up to fight her — they came all the
way from Rome.

Full soon he was pursuing them, with spears and

daggers " shooing" them,
At last he sent them to defeat and caught the

doughty queen.
He captured her regretfully, he said, but she said

fretfully

That she considered him a spiteful thing, and
very, very " mean."

He led her back a captive with her hands in

jeweled fetters,
Though she cast on Aurelian a look of proud

disdain;
Her manacles were carved and chased and decked

by jewel setters,

And to securely hold her he had made a golden
chain.

There is a lot of mystery connected with all

history —

Zenobia, they tell us, didn't want to go to jail,
But, think of such a fate as that ! Why, such a

jeweled weight as that

Was better than to pawn your clothes and be
released on bail!

Zenobia was taken to the royal Roman palace
And there the charming prisoner, we read, was

quite the rage —
Had she lived in this time of ours (we say this

without malice),

She might have made a lasting hit by going
on the stage.

Aurelian was nice to her — he hinted more than

twice to her
That he was getting pretty tired of kinging it

alone.
You see, she might have captured him — already

she enraptured him —

And had that handcuff jewelry to wear upon
the throne.

But, no! Zenobia was like 'most any other lady —
They've been the same since mother Eve; they

have the same way still:
No matter if it's Princess May, or Susie, Sal or

Sadie,

No lady will consent to be convinced against
her will.

At last they told her civilly, "You'll have to live in Tivoli"

(Which may or may not be the way to speak that city's name).

She answered very prettily: "I'll love to live in Italy" —

And there she stayed until she was an old, forgotten dame.

LD 21-95m-7,'37

3401 A G

UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY