THE OWL-CRITIC

"Who stuffed that white owl? No one spoke in the shop: The barber was busy, and he couldn't stop; The customers, waiting their turns, were all reading The Daily, the Herald, the Post, little heeding The young man who blurted out such a blunt question; Not one raised a head, or even made a suggestion; And the barber kept on shaving.

"Don't you see, Mister Brown,"

Cried the youth with a frown, "How wrong the whole thing is, How preposterous each wing is, How flattened the head is, how jammed down the neck is-- In short, the whole owl, what an ignorant wreck 'tis!

I make no apology; I've learned owl-eology.

I've pa.s.sed days and nights in a hundred collections, And cannot be blinded to any deflections Arising from unskilful fingers that fail To stuff a bird right, from his beak to his tail.

Mister Brown! Mister Brown!

Do take that bird down, Or you'll soon be the laughing-stock all over town!"

And the barber kept on shaving.

"I've studied owls And other night fowls, And I tell you What I know to be true: An owl cannot roost With his limbs so unloosed; No owl in this world Ever had his claws curled, Ever had his legs slanted, Ever had his bill canted, Ever had his neck screwed Into that att.i.tude.

He can't do it, because 'Tis against all bird-laws.

Anatomy teaches, Ornithology preaches An owl has a toe That can't turn out so!

I've made the white owl my study for years, And to see such a job almost moves me to tears!

Mister Brown, I'm amazed You should be so gone crazed As to put up a bird In that posture absurd!

To look at that owl really brings on a dizziness; The man who stuffed him don't half know his business!"

And the barber kept on shaving.

"Examine those eyes.

I'm filled with surprise Taxidermists should pa.s.s Off on you such poor gla.s.s; So unnatural they seem They'd make Audubon scream, And John Burroughs laugh To encounter such chaff.

Do take that bird down; Have him stuffed again, Brown!"

And the barber kept on shaving.

"With some sawdust and bark I could stuff in the dark An owl better than that.

I could make an old hat Look more like an owl Than that horrid fowl, Stuck up there so stiff like a side of coa.r.s.e leather.

In fact, about him there's not one natural feather."

Just then, with a wink and a sly normal lurch, The owl, very gravely, got down from his perch, Walked round, and regarded his fault-finding critic (Who thought he was stuffed) with a glance a.n.a.lytic And then fairly hooted, as if he would say: "Your learning's at fault this time, any way; Don't waste it again on a live bird, I pray.

I'm an owl; you're another. Sir Critic, good-day!"

And the barber kept on shaving.

James Thomas Fields [1816-1881]

THE BALLAD OF IMITATION C'est imiter quelqu'un que de planter des choux.--Alfred De Musset

If they hint, O Musician, the piece that you played Is naught but a copy of Chopin or Spohr; That the ballad you sing is but merely "conveyed"

From the stock of the Ames and the Purcells of yore; That there's nothing, in short, in the words or the score, That is not as out-worn as the "Wandering Jew"; Make answer--Beethoven could scarcely do more-- That the man who plants cabbages imitates, too!

If they tell you, Sir Artist, your light and your shade Are simply "adapted" from other men's lore; That--plainly to speak of a "spade" as a "spade"-- You've "stolen" your grouping from three or from four; That (however the writer the truth may deplore), 'Twas Gainsborough painted your "Little Boy Blue"; Smile only serenely--though cut to the core-- For the man who plants cabbages imitates, too!

And you too, my Poet, be never dismayed If they whisper your Epic--"Sir Eperon d'Or"-- Is nothing but Tennyson thinly arrayed In a tissue that's taken from Morris's store; That no one, in fact, but a child could ignore That you "lift" or "accommodate" all that you do; Take heart--though your Pegasus' withers be sore-- For the man who plants cabbages imitates, too!

POSTCRIPTUM.--And you, whom we all so adore, Dear Critics, whose verdicts are always so new!-- One word in your ear. There were Critics before....

And the man who plants cabbages imitates, too!

Austin Dobson [1840-1921]

THE CONUNDRUM OF THE WORKSHOPS

When the flush of a new-born sun fell first on Eden's green and gold, Our father Adam sat under the Tree and scratched with a stick in the mould; And the first rude sketch that the world had seen was joy to his mighty heart, Till the Devil whispered behind the leaves: "It's pretty, but is it Art?"

Wherefore he called to his wife, and fled to fashion his work anew-- The first of his race who cared a fig for the first, most dread review; And he left his lore to the use of his sons--and that was a glorious gain When the Devil chuckled: "Is it Art?" in the ear of the branded Cain.

They builded a tower to shiver the sky and wrench the stars apart, Till the Devil grunted behind the bricks: "It's striking, but is it Art?"

The stone was dropped at the quarry-side and the idle derrick swung, While each man talked of the aims of Art, and each in an alien tongue.

They fought and they talked in the North and the South, they talked and they fought in the West, Till the waters rose on the pitiful land, and the poor Red Clay had rest-- Had rest till that dank, blank-canvas dawn when the dove was preened to start, And the Devil bubbled below the keel: "It's human, but is it Art?"

The tale is as old as the Eden Tree--and new as the new-cut tooth-- For each man knows ere his lip-thatch grows he is master of Art and Truth; And each man hears as the twilight nears, to the beat of his dying heart, The Devil drum on the darkened pane: "You did it, but was it Art?"

We have learned to whittle the Eden Tree to the shape of a surplice-peg, We have learned to bottle our-parents twain in the yelk of an addled egg, We know that the tail must wag the dog, for the horse is drawn by the cart; But the Devil whoops, as he whooped of old: "It's clever, but is it Art?"

When the flicker of London sun falls faint on the clubroom's green and gold, The sons of Adam sit them down and scratch with their pens in the mould-- They scratch with their pens in the mould of their graves, and the ink and the anguish start, For the Devil mutters behind the leaves: "It's pretty, but is it Art?"

Now, if we could win to the Eden Tree where the Four Great Rivers flow, And the Wreath of Eve is red on the turf as she left it long ago, And if we could come when the sentry slept, and softly scurry through, By the favor of G.o.d we might know as much--as our father Adam knew.

Rudyard Kipling [1865-1936]

THE V-A-S-E

From the madding crowd they stand apart, The maidens four and the Work of Art;

And none might tell from sight alone In which had Culture ripest grown,--

The Gotham Million fair to see, The Philadelphia Pedigree,

The Boston Mind of azure hue, Or the soulful Soul from Kalamazoo,--

For all loved Art in a seemly way, With an earnest soul and a capital A.

Long they worshipped; but no one broke The sacred stillness, until up spoke

The Western one from the nameless place, Who blushing said: "What a lovely vace!"

Over three faces a sad smile flew, And they edged away from Kalamazoo.

But Gotham's haughty soul was stirred To crush the stranger with one small word.