Mother Goose for Grown-ups

THE MYSTERIOUS MISAPPREHENSION

CONCERNING

A MAN IN OUR TOWN A child of nature curious Was Charles Augustus Sprague; He made his parents furious Because he was so vague: Although his age was nearly two Eleven words were all he knew, These sounded much as sounds the Dutch That's spoken at The Hague. A few of his errata 'Tis just I should avow, He called his mother "Tata," And "moo" he dubbed a cow, Nor was it altogether plain Why "choo-choo" meant a railway train. He called a cat "miouw," and that No purist would allow. Within his father's orchard There stood, for all to see, With branches bent and tortured, An ancient apple tree: That Charles Augustus Sprague might drowse His mother on its swaying boughs His cradle hung, and, while it swung, She sang with energy. A sudden blow arising One day, the branches broke, With suddenness surprising The sleeping babe awoke, And crashing down to earth he fell. Ah me, that I should have to tell The words that mild and genial child On this occasion spoke! His face convulsed and chequered With passion and with tears, He blotted out the record Of both his speechless years: His mother stupefied, aghast, Heard Charles Augustus speak at last; He opened wide his mouth and cried These ill conditioned sneers. " Sapristi! Accidente! Perchance my speech is late, But, be she two or twenty, A nincompoop I hate! What idiot said that woman's 'planned To warn, to comfort, and command?'" His words I quench. Excuse my French— Je dis que tu m'embêtes! The moral : Common clocks, we find, In silence take a sudden wind, But only heroes, as we know, In silence take a sudden blow. THE MYSTERIOUS MISAPPREHENSION CONCERNING A MAN IN OUR TOWN There was a man in our town, Half beggar, half rapscallion, Who, just because his eyes were brown, Was thought to be Italian: And, though with much insistence He said that people erred, And bitterly to Italy He frequently referred, The false report, as is the way Of false reports, had come to stay! So every one who'd been to Rome By aid of Cook's or Gaze's, Would call upon him at his home To flaunt Italian phrases. " Capite Questa lingua? " The inquiry would be: " Pochissimo? Benissimo! Vi prego, ditemi, Siete voi contento qua, Lontano dall'Italia? " The victim, plunged in deep disgust, Grew nervous, could not slumber; Said he, "I'm called Italian, just Because my eyes are umber, And if this persecution Is ever to be stopped, Some stern and stoic, hard, heroic Course I must adopt!" And so, to everyone's surprise, He calmly scratched out both his eyes! The neighbors said: "So strange a thing Might seem to be an omen. We thought his wits were wandering, But now we know they're Roman!" And so at him by legions, By bevies, hosts, and herds, Professors, purists, tramps, and tourists Screamed Italian words. Perceiving all he'd done was vain, He scratched his eyesight in again. The moral : If your neighbors say You're one thing or another, You'll find there isn't any way Their prejudice to smother. What matter if they think you From Italy or Greece? I beg you, treasure no displeasure: Bow and hold your peace. Like Omar, underneath the bow You'll find there's paradise enow! THE OPPORTUNE OVERTHROW OF HUMPTY DUMPTY Upon a wall of medium height Bombastically sat A boastful boy, and he was quite Unreasonably fat: And what aroused a most intense Disgust in passers-by Was his abnormal impudence In hailing them with "Hi!" While by his kicks he loosened bricks The girls to terrify. When thus for half an hour or more He'd played his idle tricks, And wounded something like a score Of people with the bricks, A man who kept a fuel shop Across from where he sat Remarked: "Well, this has got to stop." Then, snatching up his hat, And sallying out, began to shout: "Look here! Come down from that!" The boastful boy to laugh began, As laughs a vapid clown, And cried: "It takes a bigger man Than you to call me down! This wall is smooth, this wall is high, And safe from every one. No acrobat could do what I Had been and gone and done!" Though this reviled, the other smiled, And said: "Just wait, my son!" Then to the interested throng That watched across the way He showed with smiling face a long And slender Henry Clay, Remarking: "In upon my shelves All kinds of coal there are. Step in, my friends, and help yourselves. And he who first can jar That wretched urchin off his perch Will get this good cigar." The throng this task did not disdain, But threw with heart and soul, Till round the youth there raged a rain Of lumps of cannel-coal. He dodged for all that he was worth, Till one bombarder deft Triumphant brought him down to earth, Of vanity bereft. "I see," said he, "that this is the Coal day when I get left." The moral is that fuel can Become the tool of fate When thrown upon a little man, Instead of on a grate. This story proves that when a brat Imagines he's admired, And acts in such a fashion that He makes his neighbors tired, That little fool, who's much too cool; Gets warmed when coal is fired. "WHILE BY KICKS HE LOOSENED BRICKS" THE PREPOSTEROUS PERFORMANCE OF AN OLD LADY OF BANBURY Within a little attic a retiring, but erratic Old lady (six-and-eighty, to be frank), Made sauces out of cranberry for all the town of Banbury, Depositing the proceeds in the bank. Her tendency to thriftiness, her scorn of any shiftiness Built a bustling business, and in course Of time her secret yearnings were revealed, and all her earnings She squandered in the purchase of a horse. "I am not in a hurry for a waggonette or surrey," She said. "In fact, I much prefer to ride." And spite of all premonishment, to everyone's astonishment, The gay old lady did so—and astride! Now this was most periculous, but, what was more ridiculous, The horse she bought had pulled a car, and so, The lazy steed to cheer up, she'd a bell upon her stirrup, And rang it twice to make the creature go! I blush the truth to utter, but it seems a pound of butter And thirty eggs she had to sell. Of course, In scorn of ways pedestrian, this fatuous equestrian To market gaily started on the horse. Becoming too importunate to hasten, the un— fortunate Old lady plied her charger with a birch. In view of all her cronies, this stupidest of ponies Fell flat before the Presbyterian church! If it should chance that one set a red Italian sunset Beside a Beardsley poster, and a plaid Like any canny Highlander's beside a Fiji Islander's Most variegated costume, and should add A Turner composition, and with clever intuition, To cap the climax, pile upon them all The aurora borealis, then veracity, not malice, Might claim a close resemblance to her fall. At sight of her disaster, with arnica and plaster The neighbors ran up eagerly to aid. They cried: "Don't do that offen, ma'am, or you will need a coffin, ma'am, You've hurt your solar plexus, we're afraid. We hope your martyrdom'll let you notice what an omelette You've made in half a jiffy. It is great!" She only clutched her bonnet (she had fallen flat upon it), And answered: "Will you tell me if it's straight?" The moral's rather curious: for often the penurious Are apt to think old horses of account If you would ride, then seek fine examples of the equine, And don't look on a molehill as a mount. THE QUIXOTIC QUEST OF THREE BLIND MICE A maiden mouse of an arrogant mind Had three little swains and all were blind. The reason for this I do not know, But I think it was love that made them so, For without demur they bowed to her, Though she treated them all with a high hauteur. She ruled them, schooled them, frequently fooled them, Snubbed, tormented, and ridiculed them: Mice as a rule are much like men, So they swallowed their pride and called again. The maiden mouse of an arrogant mind To morbid romance was much inclined. The reason for this I have not learned, But I think by novels her head was turned. She said that the chap who dared to nap One hour inside of the farmer's trap Might gain her, reign her, wholly enchain her, Woo her, win her, and thence retain her! Hope ran high in each suitor's breast, And all determined to stand the test. The maiden mouse of an arrogant mind Laughed when she saw them thus confined. The reason for this I can't proclaim, But I know some girls who'd have done the same! As thus they kept to their word, and slept, The farmer's wife to the pantry stept: She sought them, caught them, carefully brought them Out to the light, and there she taught them How that chivalry often fails, By calmly cutting off all their tails! The maiden mouse of an arrogant mind Treated her swains in a way unkind. The reason for this is not complex: That's always the way with the tender sex. With impudent hails she cried: "What ails You all, and where are your splendid tails?" She jeered so, sneered so, flouted and fleered so, Giggled, and altogether appeared so Lacking in heart, that her slaves grew bored, And threw up the sponge of their own accord. The maiden mouse of an arrogant mind Watched and waited, and peaked and pined. The reason for this, I beg to state, Is all summed up in the words Too Late ! The moral intwined is: Love is blind, But he never leaves all his wits behind: You may beat him, cheat him, often defeat him, Though he be true with torture treat him: One of these days you'll be bereft, You think you're right, but you'll find you're left. THE REMARKABLE REGIMEN OF THE SPRAT FAMILY The Sprats were four in number, Including twins in kilts: All day Jack carted lumber, All day his wife made quilts. Thus heartlessly neglected Twelve hours in twenty-four, As might have been expected, The twins sat on the floor: And all the buttons, I should state, They chanced to find, they promptly ate. This was not meat, but still it's true We did the same when we were two. The wife (whose name was Julia) Maintained an ample board, But one thing was peculiar, Lean meat she quite abhorred. Here also should be stated Another fact: 'tis that Her spouse abominated The very taste of fat. This contrast curious of taste Precluded any thought of waste, For all they left of any meal No self-respecting dog would steal. No generous table d'hôte meal, No dainties packed in tins, But only bowls of oatmeal They gave the wretched twins; And yet like princes pampered Had lived those babes accursed, Could they have fed unhampered:— I have not told the worst! Since nothing from the dining-room Was left to feed the cook and groom, It seems that these domestics cruel Were led to steal the children's gruel! The twins, all hopes resigning, And wounded to the core, Confined themselves to dining On buttons off the floor. No passionate resentment The docile babes displayed: Each day in calm contentment Three hearty meals they made. And daily Jack and Mrs. Sprat Ate all the lean and all the fat, And every day the groom and cook The children's meal contrived to hook. But when the twins grew older, As twins are apt to do, And, shoulder touching shoulder, Sat Sundays in their pew. They saw no Christian glory In parting with a dime, And in the offertory Dropped buttons every time. Said they: "What's good enough for Sprats Is good enough for heathen brats." (I most sincerely wish I knew What was the heathen's point of view.) The moral : Anecdotes abound Of buttons in collections found. Thus on the wheels of progress go, And heathens reap what Christians sew! THE SINGULAR SANGFROID OF BABY BUNTING Bartholomew Benjamin Bunting Had only three passions in life, And one of the trio was hunting, The others his babe and his wife: And always, so rigid his habits, He frolicked at home until two, And then started hunting for rabbits, And hunted till fall of the dew. Belinda Bellonia Bunting, Thus widowed for half of the day, Her duty maternal confronting, With baby would patiently play. When thus was her energy wasted A patented food she'd dispense. (She had bought it the day that they pasted The posters all over her fence.) But Bonaparte Buckingham Bunting, The infant thus blindly adored, Replied to her worship by grunting, Which showed he was brutally bored. 'Twas little he cared for the troubles Of life. Like a crab on the sands, From his sweet little mouth he blew bubbles, And threatened the air with his hands. Bartholomew Benjamin Bunting One night, as his wife let him in, Produced as the fruit of his hunting A cottontail's velvety skin, Which, seeing young Bonaparte wriggle, He gave him without a demur, And the babe with an aqueous giggle He swallowed the whole of the fur! Belinda Bellonia Bunting Behaved like a consummate loon: Her offspring in frenzy confronting She screamed herself mottled maroon: She felt of his vertebræ spinal, Expecting he'd surely succumb, And gave him one vigorous, final, Hard prod in the pit of his tum. But Bonaparte Buckingham Bunting, At first but a trifle perplexed, By a change in his manner of grunting Soon showed he was terribly vexed. He displayed not a sign of repentance But spoke, in a dignified tone, The only consecutive sentence He uttered. 'Twas: "Lemme alone." The Moral : The parent that uses Precaution his folly regrets: An infant gets all that he chooses, An infant chews all that he gets. And colics? He constantly has 'em So long as his food is the best, But he'll swallow with never a spasm What ostriches couldn't digest! THE TOUCHING TENDERNESS OF KING KARL THE FIRST For hunger and thirst King Karl the First Had a stoical, stern disdain: The food that he ordered consistently bordered On what is described as plain. Much trouble his cook ambitiously took To tickle his frugal taste, But all of his savoury science and slavery Ended in naught but waste. Said the steward: "The thing to tempt the King And charm his indifferent eye No doubt is a tasty, delectable pasty. Make him a blackbird pie!" The cook at these words baked twenty-four birds, And set them before the King, And the two dozen odious, bold, and melodious Singers began to sing. The King in surprise said: "Dozens of pies In the course of our life we've tried, But never before us was served up a chorus Like this that we hear inside!" With a thunderous look he ordered the cook And the steward before him brought, And with a beatified smile: "He is satisfied!" Both of these innocents thought. "Of sinners the worst," said Karl the First, "Is the barbarous ruffian that A song-bird would slaughter, unless for his daughter Or wife he is trimming a hat. We'll punish you so for the future you'll know That from mercy you can't depart. Observe that your lenient, kind, intervenient King has a tender heart!" He saw that the cook in a neighboring brook Was drowned (as he quite deserved), And he ordered the steward at once to be skewered. (The steward was much unnerved.) "It's a curious thing," said the merciful King, "That monarchs so tender are, So oft we're affected that we have suspected that We are too kind by far." The moral : The mercy of men and of Kings Are apt to be wholly dissimilar things. In spite of "The Merchant of Venice," we're pained To note that the quality's sometimes strained. "SHE PLUCKED HIM WITH RELENTLESS FROWN" THE UNUSUAL UBIQUITY OF THE INQUISITIVE GANDER A gander dwelt upon a farm And no one could resist him, For had he died, such was his charm, His neighbors would have missed him: His scorn for any loud display, His cheerful hissing day by day, Would win your heart in such a way You almost could have kissed him. This bird was always nosing 'round. Most patiently he waited Until an open door he found, And then investigated. He loved to poke, he loved to peek, In every knothole, so to speak, He quickly thrust his prying beak, For what was hid he hated. The farm exhausted: "Now," said he: "My policy's expansion. When one's convinced how things should be The proper course he can't shun. His mind made up, he followed it, Relying on his native wit, And soon had wandered, bit by bit, Through all his master's mansion. "At least," he said: "It's not my fault If everything's not seen to: I've gone from garret down to vault, And glanced into the lean-to. In every room I've chanced to stop; A supervising glance to drop, I've looked below, I've looked on top, Behind, and in between, too!" One thing alone he found to blame, As thus his time he squandered, For, seeing not the farmer's dame, Into her room he wandered, And mounting nimbly on the bed: "Why, bless my careful soul!" he said: "These pillows are as hard as lead. Now, how comes that?" he pondered. The farmer's dame for half an hour Had watched the bird meander, And finding him within her power, She leaped upon the gander. "Why, how de do, my gander coy?" She shouted: "What will be my joy To dream to-night on you, my boy!" (This was no baseless slander.) For with a stoutish piece of string Securely was this fool tied, And by a leg and by a wing Unto an oaken stool tied: While, pinning towels around her gown, She plucked him with relentless frown, And stuffed the pillows with his down, And roasted him for Yuletide. The moral is: When you explore Don't try to be superior: Be cautious, and retire before Your safety grows inferior. 'Tis best to stay upon the coast, Or some day you will be like most Of all that bold exploring host That's gone to the interior. THE END *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MOTHER GOOSE FOR GROWN-UPS *** Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ concept and trademark. 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