Oliver Herford

A USE-FUL les-son you may con,
My Child, from the Cha-me-le-on:
He has the gift, ex-treme-ly rare
In an-i-mals, of sav-oir-faire.
And if the se-cret you would guess
Of the Cha-me-le-on's suc-cess,
A-dapt your-self with great-est care
To your sur-round-ings ev-er-y-where;
And then, un-less your sex pre-vent,
Some day you may be Pres-i-dent.

The Kitten mews outside the Door,
    The Cat-bird in the Tree,
The Sea-mew mews upon the Shore,
    The Catfish in the Sea.

The Emu with his feathers queer
    Is mewing in the Zoo.
Why is it that I never hear
    A Pussy-willow mew?

SEE, chil-dren, the mis-guid-ed Mole.
He lives down in a deep, dark hole;
Sweet-ness, and Light, and good Fresh Air
Are things for which he does not care.
He has not e-ven that make-shift
Of fee-ble minds - the so-cial gift.
But say not that he has no soul,
Lest hap-ly we misjudge the Mole;
Nay, if we mea-sure him by Men,
No doubt he sits in his dark den
In-struct-ing oth-ers blind as he
Ex-act-ly how the world should be.

A's Albert Edward, well meaning but flighty,
Who invited King Arthur, the blameless and mighty,
To meet Alcibiades and Aphrodite.



B is for Bernhardt, who fails to awaken
Much feeling in Bismarck, Barabbas, and Bacon.



C is Columbus, who tries to explain
How to balance an egg--to the utter disdain
Of Confucius, Carlyle, Cleopatra, and Cain.



D's for Diogenes, Darwin, and Dante,
Who delight in the dance Of a Darling Bacchante.



E is for Edison, making believe
He's invented a clever contrivance for Eve,
Who complained that she never could laugh in he...

AN Arc-tic Hare we now be-hold.
The hair, you will ob-serve, is white;
But if you think the Hare is old,
You will be ver-y far from right.
The Hare is young, and yet the hair
Grew white in but a sin-gle night.
Why, then it must have been a scare
That turned this Hare. No; 't was not fright
(Al-though such cases are well known);
I fear that once a-gain you're wrong.
Know then, that in the Arc-tic Zone
A sin-gle night is six months long.

A Birdie cocked his little head,
    Winked his eye at me and said,
"Say, are you a Pussy Willer,
    Or just a Kitty-Catty pillar?"

THIS is an Os-trich. See him stand:
His head is bur-ied in the sand.
It is not that he seeks for food,
Nor is he shy, nor is he rude;
But he is sen-si-tive, and shrinks
And hides his head when-e'er he thinks
How, on the Gains-bor-ough hat some day
Of some fine la-dy at the play,
His fea-thers may ob-struct the view
Of all the stage from me or you.

When I grow up I mean to be
A Lion large and fierce to see.
I'll mew so loud that Cook in fright
Will give me all the cream in sight.
And anyone who dares to say
"Poor Puss" to me will rue the day.
Then having swallowed him I'll creep
Into the Guest Room Bed to sleep.

THE Pen-guin sits up-on the shore
And loves the lit-tle fish to bore;
He has one en-er-vat-ing joke
That would a very Saint pro-voke:
"The Pen-guin's might-i-er than the Sword-fish";
He tells this dai-ly to the bored fish,
Un-til they are so weak, they float
With-out re-sis-tance down his throat.

'Tis very comforting to know
That every other day or so
A Book by Bennett will appear
To charm the Western Hemisphere.
I see him now, with zeal sublime,
Pounding from dawn to dinner-time
Four typewriters, with hands and feet.
When the four novels are complete,
He'll fold, and send à grande vitesse
His Quadrumanuscript to press.


P. S.

Just think how much we'd have to read
If Bennett were a centipede

O. H.

SEE, chil-dren, the Fur-bear-ing Seal;
Ob-serve his mis-di-rect-ed zeal:
He dines with most ab-ste-mi-ous care
On Fish, Ice Water and Fresh Air
A-void-ing cond-i-ments or spice,
For fear his fur should not be nice
And fine and smooth and soft and meet
For Broad-way or for Re-gent Street
And yet some-how I of-ten feel
(Though for the kind Fur-bear-ing Seal
I har-bor a Re-spect Pro-found)

It's very nice to think of how
In every country lives a Cow
To furnish milk with all her might
For Kittens' comfort and delight.

THE con-sci-en-tious art-ist tries
On-ly to draw what meets his eyes.
This is the Whale; he seems to be
A spout of wa-ter in the sea.
Now, Hux-ley from one bone could make
An un-known beast; so if I take
This spout of wa-ter, and from thence
Con-struct a Whale by in-fer-ence,
A Whale, I ven-ture to as-sert,
Must be an an-i-mat-ed squirt!
Thus, chil-dren, we the truth may sift
By use of Log-ic's Price-less Gift.

I'd best beware how I make free
With Brander Matthews L. L. D.
Since Prexy Wilson's paved the way
He may be President some day.

Dear Reader, should you chance to go
To Hades, do not fail to throw
A "Sop to Cerberus" at the gate,
His anger to propitiate.
Don't say "Good dog!" and hope thereby
His three fierce Heads to pacify.
What though he try to be polite
And wag his Tail with all his might,
How shall one amiable Tail
Against three angry Heads prevail?
The Heads must win.--What puzzles me
Is why in Hades there should be
A Watch dog; 'tis, I should surmise,
The last place one would burglarize.

And now comes Dr. Eliot stating
That Hell won't bear investigating.
It looks like Charlie's out to bust
The Great Hell-Fire Insurance Trust.

Columbus is an easy one
To draw, for when the picture's done,
Where is the captious critic who
Can say the likeness is not true?

                            I

|Scene|: A wayside shrine in France.

|Persons|: Celeste, Pierre, a Cloud.

|Celeste| (gazing at the solitary white Cloud):
    I wonder what your thoughts are, little Cloud,
    Up in the sky, so lonely and so proud!

|Cloud|: Not proud, dear maiden; lonely, if you will.
    Long have I watched you, sitting there so still
    Before that little shrine beside the way,
    And wondered where your thoughts might be astray;
    Your knitting lying idle on your knees,
    And worse than idle, like Penelope's,
    Working its own undoing!

|Celeste| (picks up her knitting): Who was she?
    Saints! What a knot! Who was Penelope?
    What happened to her knitting? Tell me, Cloud!