"No, I've not done anything as yet—but, 'pon me soul, I've 'alf a mind to join one of these Self-Defence Corps."
LACTAQUEOUS LISPINGS.
Recognising the need of a wholesome antidote to the harassing influence of a diet exclusively composed of War news, one of Mr. Punch's literary staff has compiled the following brief anthology of cheerful and sedative sentiments extracted from the poems of Mrs. Ada Stanleyette Stookey, the famous American poetess. The poems, we may add, are not copyright, and may be sung or danced to anywhere in public with impunity or at least without payment of a fine:—
Knowledge True and False.
I know that the Solar Orb shines bright When 'tis not obscured by a cloud; I know that the stars we see at night Are a perfectly countless crowd; I know that honey is very sweet, That beauty is fair to the eye; That sugar we strain from the beet or the cane, That apples are good in a pie; But my soaring Muse would flatly refuse To tell you the How or Why, For we shun the tracts that are peopled with facts—Tupper and Wilcox and I.
I know not whither I'm going, Nor whence I came to earth, But it's perfectly clear that I am here In this world of sorrow and mirth; And never the lotus closes, Never the hedge-pigs whine, But I chant a stave that is sweet and brave At the rate of two dollars a line.
True Heroism.
It is easy enough to be gay when one feels That the world is progressing on rubber-tyred wheels, But the man who is jolly when stung by a bee—Oh, that is the right sort of hero for me!
The Better Way.
In stormy youth myself I hotly hurled Against the brick walls of a brutal world; Now wiser grown, and for survival fitter, I soothe the Million with my cheery twitter.
Il faut se borner.
'Tis folly to aim at a world-wide fameWhen you're only a small potato,But the man who pours oil on a village broilMay be happier far than Plato.
Her Epitaph.
Though sneered at by the cultured highbrow criticFor being neither subtle nor mephitic,Obscurity she rigidly eschewed, And scaled the topmost peaks of platitude.
The Poet's Ideal.
I hold it the duty of those who in verse Have command of a style that is simple and terse, To raise their emotions from life's lee scuppers Until they emerge to the level of Tupper's.
The Mighty Monosyllable.
All weighty words are brief: "bread," "beef" and "beer,""Eggs," "cheese" and "ham," and "Life" and "Death" and "Fear";Brief too are "lamb" and "peas," and "prose" and "rhyme":Yet in them lies a majesty sublime.
The Thing that Matters.
Oh, it is not the song of the poet, though naught could be possibly sweeterWhich touches the spot with a flame that is hot, but the heart that is back of the metre;And therefore, although right through I've loved pure Art for its own pure sake,It is not Art, Oh no! it is Heart that finally takes the cake.
Some idea of the crisis in Italy may be gathered from the following poignant message sent from Rome to The Morning Post:—"The German Embassy has ordered its washerwoman to send back its linen instantly." No doubt to have it washed in public at home.
