"_Il y a tous les jours quelque dam chose._"

--ABELARD TO HELOISE.

When Mrs. Mead was full of groans, When symptoms of all sorts a.s.sailed her, She sent for bluff old Doctor Jones, And told him all the things that ailed her.

It took her nearly half the day, And when she finished out the string-- "Ye-e-s, Mrs. Mead," drawled Doctor J., "There's always some dam thing."

I like the line. It's worth a ton Of optimistic commonplaces.

It's tonic, it refreshes one, It cheers, it stimulates, it braces.

It summarizes things so well; It has the philosophic ring.

Has Kant or Hegel more to tell?

"There's always some dam thing."

The dean of all the cheer-up school Adjures sad hearts to cease repining, And intimates that, as a rule, The sun behind the cloud is shining.

"Into each life----" You know the rest; No need to finish out the string.

Longfellow boiled might be expressed, "There's always some dam thing."

When things go wrong I do not read The cheer-up poets, great or lesser.

To soothe my soul I do not need The Neo-Thought of Mr. Dresser.

Sufficient for each working day, With all the worries it may bring, That helpful line by Doctor J., "There's always some dam thing."

THE MODERN MARINER

A dry sheet and a lazy sea, And a wind so far from fast It barely floats the owner's flag That flutters at the mast-- That flutters at the mast, my boys; So while the sky is free Of cloud we'll take a yachtsman's chance And venture out to sea.

The aneroid has dropped a tenth!

Back, back across the bar To a harbor snug, and a long cold drink, And a big fat black cigar-- A big fat black cigar, my boys; While, on an even keel, The Swedish chef out-chefs himself In getting up a meal.

Give me a soft and gentle wind, A fleckless azure sky; I care not for your "snoring breeze"

And dinners heaving high-- And dinners heaving high, my boys, Make no great hit with me; So when the breeze begins to snore We'll not put out to sea.

There's laughter in yon beach hotel, And summer girls a crowd; And hark the music, mariners, The band is piping loud!

The band is piping loud, my boys, Bright eyes are flashing free.

Come, fly the owner's-absent flag And join the revelry.

A BALLADE OF THE CANNERY

What of the phrases, long decayed, Of paleologic pedigree, Musty, moldy, frazzled, and frayed-- A doddering, dusty company?

What shall be done with them? say we; And east and west the people bawl, Dump them into the Cannery!-- Into the brine go one and all.

"Grilled" and "lauded" and "scored" and "flayed,"

"Common or garden variety,"

"Wave of crime" and "reform crusade,"

"Along these lines" and "it seems to me,"

"Noted savant," "I fail to see,"

The "groaning board" of the "banquet hall,"-- Masonjar 'em in "ghoulish glee"-- Into the brine go one and all.

"Succulent bivalves," "trusty blade,"

"Last a.n.a.lysis," "practical-ly,"

"Lone highwayman" and "fusillade,"

"Millionaire broker and clubman," "gee!"

"In reply to yours," "can such things be?"

"Sounded the keynote" or "trumpet call,"-- Can 'em, pickle 'em, one, two, three-- Into the brine go one and all.

_L'Envoi_

Under the spreading chestnut tree Stands the Cannery, all too small.

The Canner a briny man is he, And into the brine go one and all.

PANDEAN PIPEDREAMS

(_Induced by smoking "Pagan Pickings."_)

I

_This is something that I heard,_ _As the fluting of a bird,_ _On a certain drowsy day,_ _When my pipe was under way._ _I was weary of the town,_ _And the going up and down;_ _Sick of streets and sick of noise,--_ _And I pined for Pagan joys._

Daphne, here it is July!

Just the month, my love, to fly To a sylvan solitude In the green and ancient wood.

We will trip it as we go On the neo-Pagan toe, Sunny days and starry nights, Savoring the wild delights Of a turbulent desire That may set the wood on fire.

We will play at hunt-the-fawn, In the neo-Dorian dawn.

You will scamper through the brake, And I'll follow in your wake--

As the young Apollo ran In the piping days of Pan.

You'll escape me, without doubt, For I'm just a trifle stout; But, when I have lagged behind, Waiting for my second wynde, From some pretty hiding-place Will emerge your laughing face; I shall glimpse your eyes of blue, Hear your merry "Peek-a-boo!"

What to wear? The Pagan plan Contemplates a coat of tan; But I fear we shall require Just a trifle more attire.

Bushes scratch and brambles sting; Insect myriads are a-wing;-- Heavens, how mosquitoes swarm When the woodland air is warm.

(MEM: To take, when we elope, Tanglewood Mosquito Dope.)

Do you like the picture, dear?

Have you aught of doubt or fear?

Have you any criticism Of my neo-Paganism?

If not, dearie, let us fly To that pa.s.sion-ripening sky, Where our souls may have their fling, And our every care take wing.

_So the bird song fluted by,_ _Like a vagrant summer sigh--_ _Came, and pa.s.sed, and was no more;_ _And my pleasant dream was o'er._ _For arose the wraith of Doubt;_ _And I knew my pipe was out._