“You ignominious idiot!
Those wings are made to fly.”
“I do not want to fly,” said he;
“I only want to squirm.”
And he dropped his wings dejectedly,
But still his voice was firm:
“I do not want to be a fly;
I want to be a worm.”
O yesterday of unknown lack!
To-day of unknown bliss!
I left my fool in red and black,
The last I saw was this —
The creature madly climbing back
Into his chrysalis.
Charlotte Perkins Stetson Gilman.
SAME OLD STORY
HISTORY, and nature, too, repeat themselves, they say;
Men are only habit’s slaves; we see it every day.
Life has done its best for me – I find it tiresome still;
For nothing’s everything at all, and everything is nil.
Same old get-up, dress, and tub;
Same old breakfast; same old club;
Same old feeling; same old blue;
Same old story – nothing new!
Life consists of paying bills as long as you have health;
Woman? She’ll be true to you – as long as you have wealth;
Think sometimes of marriage, if the right girl I could strike;
But the more I see of girls, the more they are alike.
Same old giggles, smiles, and eyes;
Same old kisses; same old sighs;
Same old chaff you; same adieu;
Same old story – nothing new!
Go to theatres sometimes to see the latest plays;
Same old plots I played with in my happy childhood’s days;
Hero, same; same villain; and same heroine in tears,
Starving, homeless, in the snow – with diamonds in her ears.
Same stern father making “bluffs”;
Leading man all teeth and cuffs;
Same soubrettes, still twenty-two;
Same old story – nothing new!
Friend of mine got married; in a year or so, a boy!
Father really foolish in his fond paternal joy;
Talked about that “kiddy,” and became a dreadful bore —
Just as if a baby never had been born before.
Same old crying, only more;
Same old business, walking floor;
Same old “kitchy – coochy – coo!”
Same old baby – nothing new!
Harry B. Smith.
HEM AND HAW
HEM and Haw were the sons of sin,
Created to shally and shirk;
Hem lay ’round, and Haw looked on,
While God did all the work.
Hem was a fogy, and Haw was a prig,
For both had the dull, dull mind;
And whenever they found a thing to do,
They yammered and went it blind.
Hem was the father of bigots and bores;
As the sands of the sea were they;
And Haw was the father of all the tribe
Who criticise to-day.
But God was an artist from the first,
And knew what he was about;
While over his shoulder sneered these two,
And advised him to rub it out.
They prophesied ruin ere man was made:
“Such folly must surely fail!”
And when he was done, “Do you think, my Lord,
He’s better without a tail?”
And still in the honest working world,
With posture and hint and smirk,
These sons of the devil are standing by
While man does all the work.
They balk endeavour and baffle reform,
In the sacred name of law;
And over the quavering voice of Hem
Is the droning voice of Haw.
Bliss Carman.
THE SCEPTICS