Gin it to me; whut you say? Tell me, is you talkin' true, Come back, Sam; now whah's you gwine? GUY WETMORE CARRYL Guy Wetmore Carryl, son of Charles Edward Carryl (see page 77), was born in New York City, March 4, 1873. He graduated from Columbia University in 1895, was editor of Munsey's Magazine, 1895-96, and, during the time he lived abroad (from 1897 to 1902), was the foreign representative of various American publications. Inheriting a remarkable technical gift from his father, young Carryl soon surpassed him as well as all other rivals in the field of brilliantly rhymed, brilliantly turned burlesques. Although he wrote several serious poems (the best of which have been collected in the posthumously published The Garden of Years (1904), Carryl's most characteristic work is to be found in his perversions of the parables of Æsop, Fables for the Frivolous (1898), the topsy-turvy interpreta tions of old nursery rhymes, Mother Goose for Grownups (1900) and his fantastic variations on the fairy tales in Grimm Tales Made Gay (1903) — all of them with a surprising (and punning) Moral attached. This extraordinary versifier died, before reaching the height of his power, at the age of thirty-one, in the summer of 1904. THE SYCOPHANTIC FOX AND THE GULLIBLE RAVEN A raven sat upon a tree, And not a word he spoke, for His beak contained a piece of Brie, Or, maybe, it was Roquefort. We'll make it any kind you please - Beneath the tree's umbrageous limb "J'admire," said he, "ton beau plumage," Two things there are, no doubt you know, A rooster that is bound to crow, 66 A crow that's bound to roost; And whichsoever he espies He tells the most unblushing lies. Sweet fowl," he said, "I understand I hear you sing to beat the band And Adelina Patti. Pray render with your liquid tongue 6 This subtle speech was aimed to please He thought no bird in all the trees He gave the "Jewel Song" from "Faust.” But gravitation's law, of course, I blush to add that when the bird He said one brief, emphatic word, The fox was greatly startled, but The Moral is: A fox is bound To be a shameless sinner. 66 And also: When the cheese comes round But (what is only known to few) HOW JACK FOUND THAT BEANS MAY GO BACK ON A CHAP Without the slightest basis For hypochondriasis, A widow had forebodings which a cloud around her flung, And with expression cynical For half the day a clinical Thermometer she held beneath her tongue. Whene'er she read the papers She suffered from the vapors, At every tale of malady or accident she'd groan; In every new and smart disease, From housemaid's knee to heart disease, She had a yearning chronic Elixir, panacea, lotion, opiate, and balm; Would change to an hydropathist, And back again, with stupefying calm! She was nervous, cataleptic, And anemic, and dyspeptic: Though not convinced of apoplexy, yet she had her fears. She dwelt with force fanatical, Upon a twinge rheumatical, And said she had a buzzing in her ears! Now all of this bemoaning And this grumbling and this groaning The mind of Jack, her son and heir, unconscionably bored. His heart completely hardening, He gave his time to gardening, For raising beans was something he adored. Each hour in accents morbid This limp maternal bore bid Her callous son affectionate and lachrymose good-bys. She never granted Jack a day Without some long " Alackaday! Accompanied by rolling of the eyes. But Jack, no panic showing, Just watched his beanstalk growing, And twined with tender fingers the tendrils up the pole. At all her words funereal He smiled a smile ethereal, Or sighed an absent-minded "Bless my soul! " That hollow-hearted creature Would never change a feature: No tear bedimmed his eye, however touching was her talk. She never fussed or flurried him, The only thing that worried him Was when no bean-pods grew upon the stalk! But then he wabbled loosely His head, and wept profusely, And, taking out his handkerchief to mop away his tears, Exclaimed: "It hasn't got any!" He found this blow to botany Was sadder than were all his mother's fears. The Moral is that gardeners pine LEONORA SPEYER Leonora Speyer was born in Washington, D. C., in 1873. On her mother's side, she is of New England stock; her father was Count Ferdinand von Stosch, a Prussian nobleman who fought for the Union in the Civil War, became an American citizen, lived and died here. As a girl, Leonora von Stosch was a professional violinist, playing with Nikisch, Anton Seidl and other famous conductors. Later, she married Sir Edgar Speyer who, before the World War, did much to bring modern European music to England. Since 1915, Mrs. Speyer has lived in New York City. Although her husband had always written playlets for the entertainment of the family and had published a German translation of Keats' poems, Leonora Speyer had never written until 1915. For five years after that date, her verse appeared in various magazines and attracted no little attention. Her first volume, A Canopic Jar, |