The Bashful Earthquake, & Other Fables and Verses — Story, Setting & Ideas

And, putting his head outside his nest, Cried: “WHO IS IT DARES DISTURB MY REST?”

His voice with rage was a husky squeak. The Earthquake by now had become so weak He’d scarcely strength enough to speak. He even forgot the rules of grammar; All he could do was to feebly stammer: “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid it’s me. Please don’t be angry. I’ll try to be--”

No one will know what he meant to say, For all at once he melted away.

The Dormouse, grumbling, went back to bed, “Oh, bother the Bats!” was all he said.

A scarecrow in a field of corn, A thing of tatters all forlorn, Once felt the influence of Spring And fell in love--a foolish thing, And most particularly so In his case--_for he loved a crow_!

“Alack-a-day! it’s wrong, I know, It’s wrong for me to love a crow; An all-wise man created me To scare the crows away,” cried he; “And though the music of her ‘Caw’ Thrills through and through this heart of straw,

“My passion I must put away And do my duty, come what may! Yet oh, the cruelty of fate! I fear she doth reciprocate My love, for oft at dusk I hear Her in my cornfield hovering near.

“And once I dreamt--oh, vision blest! That she alighted on my breast. ’T is very, very hard, I know, But all-wise man decreed it so.” He cried and flung his arm in air, The very picture of despair.

Poor Scarecrow, if he could but know! Even now his lady-love, the Crow, Sits in a branch, just out of sight, With her good husband, waiting night, To pluck from out his sleeping breast His heart of straw to line her nest.

The politest musician that ever was seen Was Montague Meyerbeer Mendelssohn Green. So extremely polite he would take off his hat Whenever he happened to meet with a cat.

“It’s not that I’m partial to cats,” he’d explain; “Their music to me is unspeakable pain. There’s nothing that causes my flesh so to crawl As when they perform a G-flat caterwaul.

Yet I cannot help feeling--in spite of their din-- When I hear at a concert the first violin Interpret some exquisite thing of my own, If it were not for _cat gut_ I’d never be known.

And so, when I bow as you see to a cat, It is n’t to _her_ that I take off my hat; But to fugues and sonatas that possibly hide Uncomposed in her--well--in her tuneful inside!”

_Gather Kittens while you may, Time brings only Sorrow; And the Kittens of To-day Will be Old Cats To-morrow._

I saw, one day, when times were very good, A newly rich man walking in a wood, Who chanced to meet, all hungry, lean, and sore, The wolf that used to sit outside his door. Forlorn he was, and piteous his plaint. “Help me!” he howled. “With hunger I am faint. It is so long since I have seen a door-- And you are rich, and you have many score. When you’d but one, I sat by it all day; Now you have many, I am turned away. Help me, good sir, once more to find a place. Prosperity now stares me in the face.” The newly rich man, jingling all the while The silver in his pocket, smiled a smile: He saw a way the wolf could be of use.

“Good wolf,” said he, “you’re going to the deuce,-- The dogs, I mean,--and that will never do; I think I’ve found a way to see you through. I too have worries. Ever since I met Prosperity I have been sore beset By begging letters, charities, and cranks, All very short in gold and long in thanks. Now, if you’ll come and sit by my front door From eight o’clock each morning, say, till four, Then every one will think that I am poor, And from their pesterings I’ll be secure. Do you accept?” The wolf exclaimed, “I do!” The rich man smiled; the wolf smiled; _I_ smiled, too, And in my little book made haste to scrawl: “Thus affluence makes niggards of us all!”

One day a Poppy, just in play, Said to a butterfly, “Go ’way, Go ’way, you naughty thing! Oh, my! But you’re a bold bad butterfly!”

Of course ’t was only said in fun, He was a perfect paragon-- In every way a spotless thing (Save for two spots upon his wing).

But tho’ his morals were the best, He could not understand a jest; And somehow what the Poppy said Put ideas in his little head, And soon he really came to wish He _were_ the least bit “devilish.”

He then affected manners rough And strained his voice to make it gruff, And scowled as who should say “Beware, I am a dangerous character. You’d best not fool with me, for I-- I am a bold, bad butterfly.”

He hung around the wildest flowers, And kept the most unseemly hours, With dragonflies and drunken bees, And learned to say “By Jove!” with ease Until his pious friends, aghast, Exclaimed, “He’s getting awf’lly fast!”

He shunned the nicer flowers, and threw Out hints of shady things he knew About the laurels, and one day He even went so far to say Something about the lilies sweet I could not possibly repeat!

At length, it seems, from being told How bad he was, he grew so bold, This most obnoxious butterfly, That one day, swaggering ’round the sky, He swaggered in the net of Mist- er Jones, the entomologist.

“It seems a sin,” said Mr. J., “This harmless little thing to slay,” As, taking it from out his net, He pinned it to a board, and set Upon a card below the same, In letters large, its Latin name, Which is--

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but I omit it, lest Its family might be distressed, _And stop the little sum per year They pay me not to print it here_.

Up to my frozen window-shelf Each day a begging birdie comes, And when I have a crust myself The birdie always gets the crumbs.

They say who on the water throws His bread, will get it back again; If that is true, perhaps--who knows?-- I have not cast my crumbs in vain.

Indeed, I know it is not quite The thing to boast of one’s good deed; To what the left hand does, the right, I am aware, should pay no heed.

Yet if in modest verse I tell My tale, some editor, maybe, May like it very much, and--well, My bread will then return to me.

Oh, where the white quince blossom swings I love to take my Japan ease! I love the maid Anise who clings So lightly on my Japan knees; I love the little song she sings, The little love-song Japanese. I _almost_ love the lute’s _tink tunkle_ Played by that charming Jap Anise-- For am I not her old Jap uncle? And is she not my Japan niece?

In the spring the Leaves come out And the little Poetlets sprout; Everywhere they may be seen, Each as Fresh as each is Green. Each hangs on through scorch and scoff Till the fall, when both “come off,” With this difference, be it said, That the leaves at least are Red.

WHY YE BLOSSOME COMETH BEFORE YE LEAFE.

Once hoary Winter chanced--alas! Alas! hys waye mistaking, A leafless apple tree to pass Where Spring lay dreaming. “Fie ye lass! Ye lass had best be waking,” Quoth he, and shook hys robe, and lo! Lo! forth didde flye a cloud of snowe.

Now in ye bough an elfe there dwelte, An elfe of wondrous powere, That when ye chillye snowe didde pelte, With magic charm each flake didde melte, Didde melte into a flowere; And Spring didde wake and marvelle how, How blossomed so ye leafless bough.

The Infant Earth one April day (The first of April--so they say), When toddling on her usual round, Spied in her path upon the ground A dainty little garland ring Of violets--and _that_ was Spring. She caught the pretty wreath of Spring And all the birds began to sing, But when she thought to hold it tight ’T was rudely jerked from out her sight; And while she looked for it in vain The birds all flew away again.

Alas! The flowering wreath of Spring Was fastened to a silken string, And Time, the urchin, laughed for glee (He held the other end you see).

And that was long ago, they say, When Time was young and Earth was gay. Now Earth is old and Time is lame, Yet still they play the same old game: Old Earth still reaches out for Spring, And Time--well--Time still holds the string.

I know an entomologist Who thinks it not a sin To catch a harmless butterfly, And stick it, with a pin, Upon a piece of paper white, And underneath the same, In letters large and plain, to write The creature’s Latin name.

I know another little man Who catches, now and then, A microscopic little thought And goads it, with a pen, To rhyme, until we wonder quite How it can keep so tame, And why he never fails to write Beneath (in _full_) his name.

If you should ask me to decide The which of them I’d rate The greater torment of the two I should not hesitate. It’s wicked with a pin to bore A butterfly--but then, I loathe the other fellow more, Who bores me with his pen.

When poets sing of lovers’ woes, And blighted lives and throbs and throes And yearnings--goodness only knows It’s all a pose.

I am a poet too, you know, I too was young once long ago, And wrote such stuff myself, and so I ought to know.

I too found refuge from Despair In sonnets to Amanda’s fair White brow or Nell’s complexion rare Or Titian hair--

Which, when she scorned, did I resign To flames, and go into decline? Not much! When sonnets fetched per line Enough to dine.

So, reader, when you read in print A poet’s woe--beware and stint Your tears--and take this gentle hint It is his mint.

When Julia’s “_fair as flowery mead_,” Or when she “_makes his heart-strings bleed_,” Know then she’s furnishing his feed Or fragrant weed--

And even as you read--who knows? Like cannibal that eats his foes, He dines off Julia’s “_heart that froze_,” Or “_cheek of Rose_.”

THE BOASTFUL BUTTERFLY.

Upon the temple dome Of Solomon the wise There paused, returning home, A pair of butterflies.

_He_ did the quite blasé (Did it rather badly), Wherefore--need I say?-- _She_ adored him madly.

Enthusiasm she Did not attempt to curb: “Goodness gracious me! Is n’t this superb!”

_He_ vouchsafed a smile To indulge her whimsy, Surveyed the lofty pile, And drawled, “Not bad--but flimsy!

“Appearances, though fine, Lead to false deduction; This temple, I opine, Is shaky in construction.

“Think of it, my dear. All this glittering show Would crumble--disappear-- Should I but stamp my toe!

“If I should stamp--like this--” His wife cried, “Heavens! _don’t!_” He answered, with a kiss, “Very well; I won’t.”

Now, every blessed word Said by these butterflies, It chanced, was overheard By Solomon the wise.

He called in angry tone, And bade a Djinn to hie And summon to his throne That boastful butterfly.

The butterfly flew down Upon reluctant wing. Cried Solomon, with a frown, “How dared you say this thing?

“How dared you, fly, invent Such blasphemy as this is?” “Oh, king, I only meant To terrify the missis.”

The insect was so scared The king could scarce restrain A smile. “Begone! you’re spared; _But don’t do it again_!”

So spake King Solomon. The _butterflew_ away. His wife to meet him ran: “Oh, dear, what _did_ he say?”

The butterfly had here A chance to shine, and knew it. Said he: “The king, my dear, Implored me _not to do it_!”

Once to a man a goblin came And said to him, “If you will name Three wishes, whatsoe’er they be, They shall be granted instantly. Think of three things you deem the best, Express your wish--‘_we do the rest_.’” “O Goblin!” cried the man, “indeed You’re just the kind of a friend I need. Hunger and Want I’ve known thus far, I fain would learn what Riches are.” “Then,” cried the Goblin, “learn it well, _Riches are title deeds to Hell_! Now wish again.”

“Alackaday!” Exclaimed the man. “I’ve thrown away, And all for naught, a chance immense; I only wish I had some sense!” The Goblin waved his hand--the Dunce To his surprise was wise for once. And being wise, he laughed, and said: “I am a fool--would I were dead!”

“Granted!” the Goblin yell’d “it’s plain You’ll never be so wise again.”

Permit me, madame, to declare That I never will compare Eyes of yours to Starlight cold, Or your locks to Sunlight’s gold, Or your lips, I’d have you know, To the crimson Jacqueminot.

Stuff like that’s all very fine When you get so much a line; Since I don’t, I scorn to tell Flattering lies. I like too well Sun and Stars and Jacqueminot To flatter them, I’d have you know.

It was a tragic little mouse All bent on suicide Because another little mouse Refused to be his bride.

“Alas!” he squeaked, “I shall not wed! My heart and paw she spurns; I’ll hie me to the cat instead, From whence no mouse returns!”

The playful cat met him half way, Said she, “I feel for you, You’re dying for a mouse, you say, I’m dying for one, too!”

Now when Miss Mouse beheld his doom, Struck with remorse, she cried, “In death we’ll meet!--O cat! make room For one more mouse inside.”

The playful cat was charmed; said she, “I shall be, in a sense, Your pussy catafalque!” Ah me! It was her last offence!

Reader, take warning from this tale, And shun the punster’s trick: _Those mice, for fear lest cats might fail, Had eaten arsenic_!

They paused just at the crossing’s brink. Said she, “We must turn back, I think.” She eyes the mud. He sees her shrink, Yet does not falter, But recollects with fatal tact That cloak upon his arm--in fact, Resolves to do the courtly act Of good Sir Walter.

Why is it that she makes no sound, Staring aghast as on the ground He lays the cloak with bow profound? Her utterance chokes her. She stands as petrified, until, Her voice regained, in accents chill She gasps, “_I’ll thank you if you will Pick up my cloak, sir!_”

“You are old, ‘Father World,’” cried the Graduate, “But for one of your age and size, I feel it is only my duty to state You _are_ not uncommonly wise.”

“I _am_ aged,” replied Father World, “it is true. And not very wise I agree. Do you think tho’ it’s fair for a scholar like you To abuse an old fossil like me?”

Said the youth, “I refer not to college degrees, Nor dates that one crams in his skull, I complain not because you are lacking in these, But because you’re so awfully dull!

“I have studied you now I should think more or less For twenty-one years, and I know You right through and through, and I can but confess You are really confoundedly slow.”

Said the world, “My dear sir, you are right, there’s no crime Like dullness--henceforth I will try To be clever--forgive me! I’m taking your time, Perhaps we’ll meet later! Good-bye!”

“You are cold, Father World, and harden’d forsooth,” Cried the man, “and exceeding wise, And for any offensive remarks of my youth I beg to apologize.”

“Phyllis, if I could I’d paint you As I see you sitting there, You distracting little saint, you, With your aureole of hair. If I only _were_ an artist, And such glances could be caught, You should have the very smartest Picture frame that can be bought!

“Phyllis, since I can’t depict your Charms, or give you aught but fame, Will you be yourself the picture? Will you let me be the frame? Whose protecting clasp may bind you Always--”

“Nay,” cried Phyllis; “hold, Or you’ll force me to remind you Paintings _must_ be framed with gold!”

_Scene._ A hollow tree in the woods.

_Time._ December evening.

MR. OWL. MR. SPARROW. MR. BEAR.

MR. OWL (_stretching his wings_): Heigho! It’s dark! How fast the daylight goes! I must have over-slept. It’s time I rose And went about my breakfast to prepare. I should keep better hours; I declare, Before I got to bed ’t was broad daylight! That must be why I’m getting up to-night With such a sleepy feeling in my head. Heigho! Heigho! (_Yawns._)

MR. SPARROW: Why don’t you go to bed, If you’re so very sleepy?--it’s high time! The sun has set an hour ago, and I’m Going home myself as fast as I can trot. Night is the time for sleep.

MR. OWL: The time for _what_? The time for _sleep_, you say?

MR. SPARROW: That’s what I said.

MR. OWL: Well, my dear bird, your reason must have fled!

MR. SPARROW (_icily_): I do not catch your meaning quite, I fear.

MR. OWL: I mean you’re talking nonsense. Is that clear?

MR. SPARROW (_angrily_): Say that again--again, sir, if you dare! Say it again!

MR. OWL: As often as you care. You’re talking nonsense--stuff and nonsense--there!

MR. SPARROW (_hopping one twig higher up_): You are a coward, sir, and _impolite_! (_Hopping on a still higher twig_) And if you were n’t beneath me I would fight.

MR. OWL: I _am_ beneath you, true enough, my friend, By just two branches. Will you not descend? Or shall I--

MR. SPARROW (_hastily_): No, don’t rise. Tell me instead What was the nonsense that you thought I said.

MR. OWL: It may be wrong, but if I heard aright, You said the proper time for sleep was night.

MR. SPARROW: That’s what I said, and I repeat it too!

MR. OWL: Then you repeat a thing that is not true. _Day_ is the time for sleep, not _night_.

MR. SPARROW: Absurd! Who’s talking nonsense now?

MR. OWL: Impudent bird! How dare you answer back, you upstart fowl!

MR. SPARROW: How dare you call me upstart--you--you--_Owl_!

MR. OWL: This is too much! I’ll stand no more, I vow! Defend yourself!

MR. BEAR (_looking out of hollow tree_): Come, neighbors, stop that row! What you’re about I’m sure I cannot think. I only know I have n’t had one wink Of sleep. Indeed, I’ve borne it long enough. ’T would put the mildest temper in a huff;

And I am but a bear. Why don’t you go To bed like other folks, I’d like to know? Summer is long enough to keep awake-- Winter’s the time when honest people take Their three months’ sleep.

MR. SPARROW: That settles me! I fly! Dear Mr. Owl and Mr. Bear, good-by! [_Exit._

MR. OWL: I must go too, to find another wood. Every one’s mad in this queer neighborhood! It is not safe such company to keep. Good evening, Mr. Bear. [_Exit._

MR. BEAR: _Now_ I shall sleep.

A snail, who had a way, it seems, Of dreaming very curious dreams, Once dreamed he was--you’ll never guess!-- The Lightning Limited Express!

Beneathe an ancient oake one daye A holye friar kneeled to praye; Scarce hadde he mumbled Aves three, When lo! a voice within the tree! Straighte to the friar’s hearte it wente, A voice as of some spirit pente Within the hollow of the tree, That cried, “Good father, sette me free!”

Quoth he, “This hath an evil sounde.” Ande bente him lower to the grounde. But ever tho’ he prayed, the more The voice hys pytie didde implore, Untyl he raised hys eyes ande there Behelde a mayden ghostlie faire. Thus to the holy manne she spoke:

“_Within the hollow of this oak, Enchanted for a hundred yeares, Have I been bounde--yet vain my teares; Notte anything can breake the banne Till I be kiss’d by holye manne._”