Cobwebs from a Library Corner

Cobwebs from a Library Corner
John Bangs

Bangs John Kendrick

Cobwebs from a Library Corner

TO

SISTER ANNE

BOOKISH

A PESSIMISTIC VIEW

A little bit of Thackeray,
A little bit of Scott,
A modicum of Dickens just
To tangle up the plot,
A paraphrase of Marryat,
Another from Dumas —
You ask me for a novel, sir,
And I say, there you are.

The pen is greater than the sword,
Of that there is no doubt.
The pen for me whene’er I wish
An enemy to rout.
A pen, a pad, and say a pint
Of ink with which to scrawl,
To put a foe to flight is all
That’s needed – truly all.

But when it comes to making up
A novel in these days
You do not need a pen at all
To win the writer’s bays.
A pair of sharpened scissors and
A wealth of pure white page
Will do it if you have at hand
A pot of mucilage.

So give to me the scissors keen,
And give to me the glue,
And I will fix a novel up
That’s sure to startle you.
The good ideas have all been worked,
But while we’ve gum and paste
There shall be books and books and books
To please the public taste.

THE MASTER’S PEN – A CONFESSION

In my collection famed of curios
I have, as every bookman knows,
A pen that Thackeray once used.
To be amused,
I thought I’d “take that pen in hand,”
And see what came of it – what grand
Inspired lines ’twould write,
One Sunday night.
I dipped it in the ink,
And tried to think,
“Just what shall I indite?”
And do you know, that pen went fairly mad;
A dreadful time with it I had.
It spluttered, spattered, scratched, and blotted so,
I had to give it up, you know.
It really wouldn’t work for me,
And so I put it down; but last night, after tea,
I took it up again,
And equally in vain.
The hours sped;
I went to bed,
And in my dreams the pen came up to me and said:
“Here is the list of Asses who have tried
To take up pens the master laid aside;
Look thou!” I looked, and lo! – perhaps you’ve guessed —
My name, like Abou Ben’s, led all the rest!

BOOKWORM BALLADS

A LITERARY FEAST

My Bookworm gave a dinner to a number of his set.
I was not there – I say it to my very great regret.
For they dined well, I fancy, if the menu that I saw
Was followed as implicitly as one obeys the law.

“’Twill open,” he observed to me, “with quatrains on the half.
They go down easy; then for soup” – it really made me laugh —
“The poems of old Johnny Gay” – his words were rather rough —
“They’ll do quite well, for, after all, soup’s thin and sloppy stuff.

“For fish, old Izaak Walton; and to serve as an entrée,
I think some fixed-up morsel, say from James, or from Daudet;
The roast will be Charles Kingsley – there’s a deal of beef in him.
For sherbet, T. B. Aldrich is just suited to my whim.

“For game I’ll have Boccaccio – he’s quite the proper one;