Let us cast away the out-of-date traditions, Which our poets and romanticists have sung!

Let us sacrifice the senseless superst.i.tions That illuminate the fancies of the young!

If we limit our instruction to the "reals,"

We may prove to ev'ry baby from the start, The futility of cherishing ideals In his golden little heart!

[Ill.u.s.tration: "_He is yearning for the chance of reading Gibbon_"

_The Cry of the Elders_

[With steady but increasing pace the world is approaching a point at which the cleverness of the young will amount to a social problem. Already things are getting uncomfortable for persons of age and sobriety, whose notion of happiness is to ruminate a few solid and simple ideas in freedom from disturbance.--_Macmillan's Magazine._]

O my Children, do you hear your elders sighing?

Do you wonder that senility should find Your encyclopaedic knowledge somewhat trying To the ordinary mind?

In the heyday of a former generation, Some respect for our intelligence was shown; And it's hard for us to cotton To the fact that _you've_ forgotten More than _we_ have ever known!

O my Children, do you hear your elders snoring, When the "cha.s.sis" of your motors you discuss?

Do you wonder that your "shop" is rather boring To such simple souls as us?[1]

Do you marvel that your dreary conversation Should evoke the yawns that "lie too deep for tears,"

When you lecture to your betters About "tanks" and "carburettors,"

About "sparking-plugs" and "gears"?

O my Children, in the season of your nonage, (Which delightful days no longer now exist!) We could join with other fogeys of our own age In a quiet game of whist.

_Now_, at bridge, our very experts are defeated By some beardless but impertinent young cub, Who converts our silent table To a very Tow'r of Babel, At the Knickerbocker Club!

O my Children, we no longer are respected!

'Tis a fact we older fellows must deplore, Whose opinions and whose judgments are neglected, As they never were before.

We may tender good advice to our descendants; We may offer them our money, if we will; Lo, the one shall be forsaken, And the other shall be taken (Like the women at the mill!).

O my Children, note the moral (like a kernel) I have hidden in the centre of my song!

Do not contradict a relative maternal, If she happens to be wrong!

Be indulgent to the author of your being; Never show him the contempt that you must feel; Treat him tolerantly, rather, Since a man who is _your_ father Can't be wholly imbecile!

O my Children, we, the older generation, At whose feet you ought (in theory) to sit, Are bewildered by your mental penetration, We are dazzled by your wit!

But we hopefully antic.i.p.ate a future When the airship shall replace the motor-'bus, And _your_ children, when they meet you, Shall inevitably treat you Just as you are treating us!

[1] "As us" is not grammar.--Publishers' Reader.

"As we" is not verse.--H. G.

_An Epithalamium_

LONGWORTH--ROOSEVELT, FEBRUARY 17TH, 1906

Hail, bride and bridegroom of the West!

Your troth irrevocably plighted!

Your act of Union doubly blest, Your single States United, With full approval and a.s.sent Of populace and President!

Let Spangled Banners wave on high, To greet the maiden as she pa.s.ses!

See how the proud Proconsul's eye Grows dim behind his gla.s.ses!

How fond the heart that beats beneath Those pleated Presidential teeth!

The bishop has received his cheque, The final slipper has been thrown; With rice down each respective neck, The couple stand alone.

To them, at last, the fates provide A privacy so long denied.

Letters and wires, from near and far, Lie thickly piled on ev'ry table; The peaceful message from the Czar, The Kaiser's kindly cable; The well-expressed congratulations From Heads of all the Sister Nations.

Rich gifts, as countless as the sand That cloaks the desert of Sahara, From fish-slice to piano (grand), From toast-rack to tiara, Still overwhelm the lucky maid (With heavy duties to be paid!).

See, hand-in-hand, the couple stand!

(The guests their homeward journey take, Concealing their emotion--and Some lumps of wedding cake!) How glad the happy pair must be That Hymen's bonds have set them free!

Free of the curious Yellow Press, Free of the public's prying gaze, Of all the troubles that obsess The path of fiances!

Alone at last, and safely screen'd From onslaughts of the kodak-fiend!

The Bride, who bore without demur The wiles of artists photographic, Of vulgar crowds that gaped at her, Congesting all the traffic, Can shop, once more, in perfect peace, Without the help of the police.

Arrayed in stylish trav'lling dress, Behold, with blushes she departs!

The free Republican Princess A captive Queen of Hearts!

(Captive to Cupid, need I say?

But Queen in ev'ry other way!)

And this must surely be the hour For Anglo-Saxons, ev'rywhere, With cousinly regard, to show'r Good wishes on the pair; Borne on the bosom of the breeze, Our blessings speed across the seas!

Hail, Bride and Bridegroom of the West!

(Pray pardon my redundant lyre) May your united lives be blest With all your hearts' desire!

Accept the warm felicitations Of fond, if distant, blood-relations!

[Ill.u.s.tration: "_How glad the happy pair must be That Hymen's bonds have set them free_"

_The Self-Made Father to His Ready-Made Son_

(AN OPEN LETTER)

My Offspring:--Ere you raise the gla.s.s, To irrigate your ardent throttle; Ere once again you gladly pa.s.s The bottle; Take heed that your prevailing pa.s.sion Be not completely out of fashion.

No longer does the Prodigal Expend his nights in drunken frolic; Or pa.s.s his days in revels al-Coholic; For, nowadays, a gla.s.s _de trop_ Is not considered _comme il faut_.