EPITAPH ON THE PROOFREADER OF THE ENCYCLOPEDIA BRITANNICA

Majestic tomes, you are the tomb Of Aristides Edward Bloom, Who labored, from the world aloof, In reading every page of proof.

From A to And, from Aus to Bis Enthusiasm still was his; From Cal to Cha, from Cha to Con His soft-lead pencil still went on.

But reaching volume Fra to Gib, He knew at length that he was sib To Satan; and he sold his soul To reach the section Pay to Pol.

Then Pol to Ree, and Shu to Sub He staggered on, and sought a pub.

And just completing Vet to Zym, The motor hea.r.s.e came round for him.

He perished, obstinately brave: They laid the Index on his grave.

THE MUSIC BOX

At six--long ere the wintry dawn-- There sounded through the silent hall To where I lay, with blankets drawn Above my ears, a plaintive call.

The Urchin, in the eagerness Of three years old, could not refrain; Awake, he straightway yearned to dress And frolic with his clockwork train.

I heard him with a sullen shock.

His sister, by her usual plan, Had piped us aft at 3 o'clock-- I vowed to quench the little man.

I leaned above him, somewhat stern, And spoke, I fear, with emphasis-- Ah, how much better, parents learn, To seal one's censure with a kiss!

Again the house was dark and still, Again I lay in slumber's snare, When down the hall I heard a trill, A tiny, tinkling, tuneful air--

His music-box! His best-loved toy, His crib companion every night; And now he turned to it for joy While waiting for the lagging light.

How clear, and how absurdly sad Those tingling p.r.i.c.ks of sound unrolled; They chirped and quavered, as the lad His lonely little heart consoled.

_Columbia, the Ocean's Gem_-- (Its only tune) shrilled sweet and faint.

He cranked the chimes, admiring them In vigil gay, without complaint.

The treble music piped and stirred, The leaping air that was his bliss; And, as I most contritely heard, I thanked the all-unconscious Swiss!

The needled jets of melody Rang slowlier and died away-- The Urchin slept; and it was I Who lay and waited for the day.

[Ill.u.s.tration: _The Music Box_]

TO LUATH

(_Robert Burns's Dog_)

_"Darling Jean" was Jean Armour, a "comely country la.s.s" whom Burns met at a penny wedding at Mauchline. They chanced to be dancing in the same quadrille when the poet's dog sprang to his master and almost upset some of the dancers. Burns remarked that he wished he could get any of the la.s.ses to like him as well as his dog did.

Some days afterward, Jean, seeing him pa.s.s as she was bleaching clothes on the village green, called to him and asked him if he had yet got any of the la.s.ses to like him as well as his dog did.

That was the beginning of an acquaintance that coloured all of Burns's life._

--NATHAN HASKELL DOLE.

Well, Luath, man, when you came prancing All glee to see your Robin dancing, His partner's muslin gown mischancing You leaped for joy!

And little guessed what sweet romancing You caused, my boy!

With happy bark, that moment jolly, You frisked and frolicked, faithful collie; His other dog, old melancholy, Was put to flight-- But what a tale of grief and folly You wagged that night!

Ah, Luath, tyke, your bonny master Whose lyric pulse beat ever faster Each time he saw a la.s.s and pa.s.sed her His breast went bang!

In many a woful heart's disaster He felt the pang!

Poor Robin's heart, forever burning, Forever roving, ranting, yearning, From you that heart might have been learning To be less fickle!

Might have been spared so many a turning And grievous p.r.i.c.kle!

Your collie heart held but one notion-- When Robbie jigged in sprightly motion You ran to show your own devotion And gambolled too, And so that tempest on love's ocean Was due to you!

Well, it is ower late for preaching And hearts are aye too hot for teaching!

When Robin with his eye beseeching By greenside came, Jeanie--poor la.s.s--forgot her bleaching And yours the blame!

THOUGHTS ON REACHING LAND

I had a friend whose path was pain-- Oppressed by all the cares of earth Life gave him little chance to drain His secret cisterns of rich mirth.

His work was hasty, hara.s.sed, vexed: His dreams were laid aside, perforce, Until--in this world, or the next....

(His trade? Newspaper man, of course!)

What funded wealth of tenderness, What ingots of the heart and mind He must uneasily repress Beneath the rasping daily grind.

But now and then, and with my aid, For fear his soul be wholly lost, His devoir to the grape he paid To call soul back, at any cost!

Then, liberate from discipline, Undrugged by caution and control, Through all his veins came flooding in The virtued pa.s.sion of his soul!

His spirit bared, and felt no shame: With holy light his eyes would shine-- See Truth her acolyte reclaim After the second gla.s.s of wine!

The self that life had trodden hard Aspired, was generous and free: The glowing heart that care had charred Grew flame, as it was meant to be.

A pox upon the canting lot Who call the gla.s.s the Devil's shape-- A greater pox where'er some sot Defiles the honor of the grape.