Oliver Herford

From Hiram Maxim's hair you'd think
His specialty was spilling ink--
You'd never dream he'd spilt more blood
Than any one man since the Flood.

When Paderewski is forgot,
Our children's children, like as not,
Will worship in the Hall of Fame,
Some great piano-maker's name.

At evening when the lamp is lit,
    The tired Human People sit
And doze, or turn with solemn looks
    The speckled pages of their books.

Then I, the Dangerous Kitten, prowl
    And in the Shadows softly growl,
And roam about the farthest floor
    Where Kitten never trod before.

And, crouching in the jungle damp,
    I watch the Human Hunter's camp,
Ready to spring with fearful roar
    As soon as I shall hear them snore.

And then with stealthy tread I crawl
    Into the dark and trackless hall,
Where 'neath the Hat-tree's shadows deep
    Umbrellas fold their wings and sleep.

A cuckoo calls--and to their dens
    The People climb like frightened hens,
And I'm alone--and no one cares
    In Darkest Africa--down stairs.

This picture though it is not much
    Like Zangwill, is not void of worth
It has one true Zangwillian touch
    It looks like nothing else on earth.

I'm told the Artist who aspires
To draw Forbes-Robertson requires
A Sargent's brush. Dear me! how sad!
I've lost the only one I had.

    In Rome, when Morgan came to town,
    They nailed the Colosseum down.
    A great Collector! Once his Fad
    Was Coins, but when in time he had
    Collected all the coin in sight,
    To Europe's Art his thoughts took flight.
    But let not Europe palpitate
For fear of an Art Syndicate.
    There are more Rembrandts, strange to say,
    Than ever were in Rembrandt's day;
    And statues "planted" in the sand
    Will always equal the demand.

Few faces interest me less
Than Rockefeller's, I confess.
'Twould vastly better suit my whim
To draw his bank account, than him.

For Perfect Form there are but few
That can compare with Mr. Drew;
A Form most fittingly displayed
In rôles from London, tailor-made
By Messrs. Maughn, Pinero, Jones,
In quiet, gentlemanly tones.
The Nouveaux-Riches flock, day by day,
To learn from John how to display
(Without unnecessary gloom)
The manners of the drawing-room.
This possibly may be the cause
(Or one of them) why John Drew draws.

Here's Sargent doing the Duchess X
In pink velours and pea-green checks.
"It helps," says he, "to lift your Grace
A bit above the commonplace."

When Human Folk put out the light,
    And think they've made it dark as night,
A Pussy Cat sees every bit
    As well as when the lights are lit.

When Human Folk have gone upstairs,
    And shed their skins and said their prayers,
And there is no one to annoy,
    Then Pussy may her life enjoy.

No Human hands to pinch or slap,
    Or rub her fur against the nap,
Or throw cold water from a pail,
    Or make a handle of her tail.

And so you will not think it wrong
    When she can play the whole night long,
With no one to disturb her play,
    That Pussy goes to bed by day.

Well I recall how first I met
    Mark Twain - an infant barely three
Rolling a tiny cigarette
    While cooing on his nurse's knee.

Since then in every sort of place
    I've met with Mark and heard him joke,
Yet how can I describe his face?
    I never saw it for the smoke.

At school he won a smokership,
    At Harvard College (Cambridge, Mass.)
His name was soon on every lip,
    They made him "smoker" of his class.

Who will forget his smoking bout
    With Mount Vesuvius - our cheers -
When Mount Vesuvius went out
    And didn't smoke again for years?

The news was flashed to England's King,
    Who begged Mark Twain to come and stay,
Offered him dukedoms - anything
    To smoke the London fog away.

B...

How did Medusa do her hair?
The question fills me with despair.
It must have caused her sore distress
That head of curling snakes to dress.
Whenever after endless toil
She coaxed it finally to coil,
The music of a Passing Band
Would cause each separate hair to stand
On end and sway and writhe and spit,--
She couldn't "do a thing with it."
And, being woman and aware
Of such disaster to her hair,
What could she do but petrify
All whom she met, with freezing eye?

I like to draw Napoleon best
Because one hand is in his vest,
The other hand behind his back.
(For drawing hands I have no knack.)

Oh, Editor, Editor,
Awful and grand,
Who holdest our fate
In the palm of thy hand,
Dost ever reflect
How one day thy ghost
To an Editor awf'ler
And grander will post?
Before him a great
Golden scroll is spread wide,
And a bottomless waste-basket
Yawns at his side.
With a swift searching glance
He reads through thy soul,
Then he looks at the basket,
Then looks at the scroll;
He purses his lips
And nibbles his pen,
And frowns for one long
Awful moment--and then--
Oh, Editor!--think! if thy
Poor crumpled soul
Fall into the basket
And not in the scroll!

The ancients made no end of fuss
About a horse named Pegasus,
A famous flyer of his time,
Who often soared to heights sublime,
When backed by some poetic chap
For the Parnassus Handicap.
Alas for fame! The other day
I saw an ancient "one-hoss shay"
Stop at the Mont de Piété,
And, lo! alighting from the same,
A bard, whom I forbear to name.
Noting the poor beast's rusty hide
(The horse, I mean), methought I spied
What once were wings. Incredulous,
I cried, "Can this be Pegasus!"

By the Harp

"Shpeaking of Harps, sure me frind Pete
Has got the Harp of Tara beat,"
Said Mr. Dooley. "Div'l a thing
That boy can't play upon won shtring.
For all the wurrld, to hear him play
You'd think 'twas a whole orchestray.
Great Shtatesmen come from far and near
And shtop their talking, just to hear
Him harp upon the latest kinks
In politics and social jinks.
Niver was such a music sharp,
I'd orter know, sure I'm the Harp."

Beside a Primrose 'broider'd Rill
    Sat Phyllis Lee in Silken Dress
Whilst Lucius limn'd with loving skill
    Her likeness, as a Shepherdess.
Yet tho' he strove with loving skill
His Brush refused to work his Will.

"Dear Maid, unless you close your Eyes
    I cannot paint to-day," he said;
"Their Brightness shames the very Skies
    And turns their Turquoise into Lead."
Quoth Phyllis, then, "To save the Skies
And speed your Brush, I'll shut my Eyes."

Now when her Eyes were closed, the Dear,
    Not dreaming of such Treachery,
Felt a Soft Whisper in her Ear,
    "Without the Light, how can one See?"
"If you are sure that none can see
I'll keep them shut," said Phyllis Lee.

The rain is raining everywhere,
    Kittens to shelter fly -
But Human Folk wear overshoes,
    To keep their hind paws dry.