Cobwebs from a Library Corner

THE HEROIC GUNNER

When the order was given to withdraw from battle for breakfast, one of the gun-captains, a privileged character, begged Commodore Dewey to let them keep on fighting until “we’ve wiped ’em out.” — War Anecdote in Daily Paper.

 
At the battle of Manila,
In the un-Pacific sea,
Stood a gunner with his mad up
Just as far as it could be —
Stood a gunner brave and ready
For the hated enemy.
 
 
Near the Isles of Philopena
Raged the battle all the morn,
And the plucky Spanish sailors
By the shot and shell were torn;
And the flag that floated o’er them
To oblivion was borne.
 
 
Every cannon belched projectiles,
Every cannon breathed forth hell,
Every cannon mowed the foeman
From the deck into the swell,
When amid the din of battle
Rang the silvery breakfast-bell.
 
 
“Stop your shooting! Come to breakfast!”
Cried the gallant Commodore.
“After eating we will let them
Have a rousing old encore.
Stow your lanyards, O my Jackies;
Let the cannon cease to roar.”
 
 
Then upspake the fighting gunner:
“Dewey, don’t, I beg of you.
What’s the use of drinking coffee
Till we’ve put this scrimmage through?
If there’s any one who’s hungry,
Won’t this Spanish omelet do?
 
 
“Farragut would not have done it
When through Mobile Bay he sped.
Why then, Dewey, should we breakfast
Till we’ve plunked ’em full of lead?
Let our motto be as his was —
Damn the fishballs! Go ahead!”
 

THE PATHETIC TALE OF THE CADDY BOY

 
“Come here,” said I, “oh caddy boy, and tell me how it haps
You cling so fast unto these links; not like the other chaps,
Who like to dally on the streets and play the game of craps?
 
 
“Is it that you enjoy the work of carrying a bag
While others speed the festive ball o’er valley, hill, and crag?
And do your spirits never seem to falter or to flag?
 
 
“I’ve watched you many a day, my lad, and puzzled o’er the fact
That you are so attentive to the game; your every act
Doth indicate perfection – there’s been nothing you have lacked.
 
 
“And I would know just why it is that you so perfect seem —
In all my golfing days you’ve been the very brightest gleam —
Or am I lying home in bed and are you just a dream?”
 
 
“Oh, sir,” said he, “I caddy here because I love my pa;
I cling unto these gladsome links because I love my ma;
In short, I love my parents, sir, and these my reasons are:
 
 
“’Twas but a year ago, good sir, when first this ancient sport
Came in the portals of our home – home of the sweetest sort;
When golf came through the window, sir, why home went through the port.
 
 
“My father first he took it up, and many a weary night
My mother with us children waited up by candle-light,
In hopes that he’d return and free us from our lonely plight.
 
 
“Then mother she went after him – alas! that it should be —
And shortly learned the game herself – she plays it famously —
Which left us children orphans, I and all my brothers three.
 
 
“They play it here, they play it there, they play it everywhere;
No matter what the weather, be it wet or be it fair,
And for the cares of golf they’ve dropped their every other care.
 
 
“And so it is that we poor lads are forced to leave our home,
And join the ranks of caddy boys who o’er the fields do roam
In search of little golf-balls in the sunlight and the gloam;
 
 
“For some day we are hoping that our eyes again will see
Our most beloved parents on some putting-green or tee;
A sight to gladden all our hearts if it should ever be.”
 
 
And lo – I looked upon that boy – his face was sweet and sad,
And to my heart there came a twinge, for in that little lad
I recognized my eldest son —I was that wicked dad!
 
 
And now together we are out on links at home and far.
He and his three small brothers with their shamed, repentant pa,
A-looking here and looking there to find their dear mamma.
 

GARRULOUS WISDOM

 
I know a wondrous man – my neighbor he;
He’s ripe in years, and great in understanding.
He’s versed in art, and in philosophy
He shows a mind that’s verily commanding.
 
 
He’ll stand before a painting, and without
A single instant’s thought, or hesitation,
He’ll tell the painter’s name, nor any doubt
Is there he gives the proper information.
 
 
The rocks, the hills and valleys, hold from him
No secret that is past a man’s revealing.
He knows why some are stout and others slim;
He comprehends all kinds of human feeling.
 
 
The records of the stars he knows, and each
Romance that round about the heavens lingers.
At dinner-time he oft delights to preach
On which was made the first, or forks or fingers.
 
 
Indeed, all things he knows, or high or low —
The things that fly on wing, or go a-walking —
Except one thing he never seems to know,
And that’s when he should stop his endless talking.
 

THE PERJURY OF A REJECTED LOVER

 
When I was twenty-one, I swore,
If I should ever wed,
The maiden that I should adore
Should have a classic head;
Should have a form quite Junoesque;
A manner full of grace;
A wealth of hirsute picturesque
Above a piquant face.
 
 
But I, alas! am perjured, for
I’ve wed a dumpy lass
I much despised in days of yore,
Of quite the plainest class,
Because each maiden of my dream,
Whose favor I did seek,
Was so opposed unto my scheme
I married Jane in pique.
 

MAID OF CULTURE

 
Maid of culture, ere we part,
Since we’ve talked of letters, art,
Science, faith, and hypnotism,
And ’most every other ism,
When you wrote, a while ago,
Ζώη μοῦ, σὰς ἀγαπώ,
 
 
Let me tell you this, my dear:
Though your lettering was clear,
Though the ancient sages Greek
Would be glad to hear you speak,
They would be replete with woe
At your μοῦ, σὰς ἀγαπώ.
 
 
For, dear maiden most astute,
You have placed the mark acute
O’er omega. Take your specs.
See? It should be circumflex.
Still I love you, even though
You have written ἀγαπώ.