  The Words by Wilbur D·Nesbit
Paul Elder and Company Publishers, ACKNOWLEDGMENT In their original form, the contents of this Copyright, 1905 Angel With Alphabet Blocks Table of Contents & List of IllustrationsALEXANDER THE GREAT Alexander in full armour. Alexander the Great was a victim of fate, And he sighed there was naught to delight him When he brandished his sword and defiantly roared And could not get a country to fight him. All the armies he'd chased, all the lands laid to waste, And he clamored for further diversions; And our history speaks of his grip on the Greeks And his hammerlock hold on the Persians. Though the Gordian knot, cut in two, in a spot In his palace was labeled a relic, Though Bucephalus, stuffed, gave him fame, he was huffed— He was grouchy and grumpy, was Aleck. And the cause of his woe, he would have you to know, Was the fact that he never was able To conduct a big scrap that a versatile chap Of a war correspondent would cable. 'Stead of being quite glad, he would grow very sad When he told of the fellows who'd fought him, As he thought of the lack of the clicking kodak In the hands of a man to "snapshot" him. We are told that he wept, and in dolefulness crept Through his palace—the reason is hinted: There were not at that time magazines for a dime, And his articles could not be printed. Though it may seem unkind, ere his life we've outlined, We must say in some ways he was hateful; And in truth, we have heard he went back on his word, And was not Alexander the Grateful. Brutus with a bloody dagger. Back in the time of Rome sublime, There lived great Julius CÆsar Who wore the crown with haughty frown And was a frosty geezer. Three times, they say, upon the way Called Lupercal, they fetched it For him to wear, but then and there He said they should have stretched it. And we are told that Jule was cold And frigid as Alaska, Ambitious, too,—that would not do For Cassius and Casca. They told their friends: "It all depends On having things to suit us. We think that Jule is much too cool; Let us conspire with Brutus." They furthermore let out this roar: "Shall CÆsar further scoff us? Next week, they say, he'll have his way About the Rome postoffice." With dirk and sword in togas stored— You know those times they wore 'em— They made a muss of Ju-li-us One morning in the Forum. With "Et tu, Brute?" J. C. grew mute. (Some claim it's "Et tu, Bru-te"; We mention it both whole and split As is our bounden duty.) Mark Antony arose, and he Talked some,—we shall not quote it; We've understood 'twas not as good As when Bill Shakespeare wrote it. Then Brutus skipped lest he be nipped— And since his dissolution He's been accused and much abused In schools of elocution. Columbus in the New World. When Christopher Columbus stood the egg upon its end, He solved a weighty problem that no one could comprehend— Perhaps it was the puzzle whose solution clearly showed The psychologic motives of the hen that crossed the road. Perhaps cold storage minstrels never might have heard of this If it hadn't been for Chris. Columbus packed his little grip and got upon the train And went to see that noble man, King Ferdinand of Spain. Result: He found America—oh, do not idly nod, For if it hadn't been for this we couldn't go abroad! Just think of all the travel and the voyages we'd miss If it hadn't been for Chris. Columbus found America and won a lot of fame— Nobody ever thought to ask him how he knew its name; Nobody ever booked him for some lectures to declare In eloquent assertions how he knew the land was there. Today we might be savages, unknowing modern bliss, If it hadn't been for Chris. He landed near Havana, and he said: "It seems to me That sometime in the future little Cuby shall be free." His vision was prophetic—far adown the future's track He saw the dauntless Hobson and the sinking Merrimac. We might have still been tyros in the ethics of the kiss If it hadn't been for Chris. Today there are big cities and big buildings named for him, And yet he was so poor that once he thought he'd have to swim To find this wondrous country, for he was so badly broke; But Isabella nobly put her watch and ring in soak. Who knows but Isabella never might have thought of this If it hadn't been for Chris? Diogenes with lantern and hammer. Diogenes lived in a tub His fellows analyzing; These words were carved upon his club: "First Class Philosophizing." If any question came his way Involving people's morals, The things that he felt moved to say Were sure to start some quarrels. In fact, his tub became a booth In which he dealt in wholesale truth. This world was but a fleeting show— He knew a lot about it; When he was told a thing was so He then began to doubt it. He seldom left his narrow home— Not even on a Sunday; The only time that he would roam Abroad was on a Monday. He had to roam then, anyway, For that, you know, is washing day. Society, with all its sham, Gave him a paroxysm; He always spoke in epigram And thought in aphorism. One day he took his lantern down And polished it and lit it— But first he frowned a peevish frown And growled: "The wick don't fit it." And then, with pessimistic scan, He sought to find an honest man. Diogenes has long been dead; His search was not well heeded, For no historian has said If ever he succeeded. But there's this thought for you and me: It would not be quite pleasant If on that quest the sage should be With his fierce light, at present. For, if he were, one may but think How much that light would make him blink. Euripides while writing. Euripides, of ancient Greece, Excelled in things dramatic; He could sit down and write a piece Mild tempered or emphatic; The dramatists of modern days— No matter how much they write— Can never equal Rippy's ways, For he was quite a playwright. When Rippy took his pen in hand The scenes would flow like magic; Though humor came at his command His penchant was the tragic; He often wrote a little speech That was extremely pleasant— His jests were lasting—all and each Are still used at the present. Euripides was serious— He thought he had a mission. He said, "By writing thus and thus I'll elevate the Grecian." However, though he oft produced His works in manner spurty, He never wrote a thing to boost The vogue of ten, twent', thirty. In fact, his works could have been played In goodly style with no girls— He never used the soubrette maid Or based his play on show girls; And, this for old Euripides: In none of all his dramas Did he observe the modern pleas For chorus in pajamas. Euripides was Athens' Fitch Or her Augustus Thomas— It's really hard to say just which, But he was full of promise. It's time that Rippy had his due And got his share of glory, For royalties he never knew And no press agent's story. Ben Franklin with a key. Fame twined a wreath on Franklin's brow A-many years ago— And yet, how many people now The reason for it know? Was it because he wisely wrote Poor Richard's Almanac (One of the few, we pause to note, Which testimonials lack)? Was Franklin's fame the sure result Of his philosophy? (No mental cure or psychic cult Or Great Uplift had he.) Was it because for years and years He was a diplomat? Why, no. What person ever hears About such things as that? Then what did wise Ben Franklin do That he should merit fame? That each edition of "Who's Who" In bold type puts his name? He flew his kite; he had the key His front door to unlock— Like countless other men, then he Acquired a sudden shock. The trolley cars and dynamos And incandescent light And buzzing fan which coolness blows All date from Franklin's kite. But, what an oversight of Fame! Ben Franklin's wife—'twas she, That thoughtful, gentle, kindly dame, Who let him have the key. Galileo using his telescope. Galilei Galileo was an early man of science; He was happy when inventing, or discussing an appliance; Pendulums, he found by study, were precise in every wobble— Showing how old Father Time went in his never-ending hobble. Galilei Galileo the thermometer invented And informed the gaping public what its figures represented. "O you foolish Galileo," cried the public, "you shall rue it! Why get up a thing to tell us we are hot? We always knew it." Galilei Galileo took a tube and got some lenses And discovered things that made him rather disbelieve his senses; He would point his telescope up to the sky and then he'd scan it, Then go in to breakfast smiling, for he'd found another planet. Galilei Galileo viewed the luminary solar (That's the sun) and found it spotted on the belt and regions polar; But he didn't figure out that when the sun was thickly freckled Then the world with lights and fusses was continually speckled. Galilei Galileo wrote a thing and then denounced it— But we often read his name and wonder how the man pronounced it. Maybe when he tried to he was all at sixes and at sevens, Which is why he turned his studies to the dim and distant heavens. Galilei Galileo! What a musical cognomen! Possibly some bright librettist will find in this name an omen That presages fortune for him, and the stage will pay what we owe To that honest old star gazer, Galilei Galileo. Hippocrates with surgical tools. Hippocrates was father to an awful lot of bother, for 'tis claimed that as to medicine he was the pioneer, That but for him the surgeon or the latter-day chirurgeon might never have been tinkering the human running gear. Hippocrates' diploma never threw him into coma in his efforts to decipher what its classic diction said, For when he was seeking practice—long ago—the simple fact is that the Latin tongue was common and was very far from dead. He often growled, "Dad gum it!" when he felt the glossy summit of his head, which was as bald as any shiny billiard ball— But old Hip had to endure it, for he knew he couldn't cure it, and that once his hair was falling, why, he had to let it fall. He was written up by Plato (who was quite a hot potato when it came to mental effort, for you know he reasoned well); Plato praised his diagnosis, called him healing's patient Moses, and though facts were hard to gather, found a goodly lot to tell. Hippocrates had knowledge, though he didn't go to college; he could speak of all diseases that he knew, in Latin terms (Still, 'twas only second nature to affect that nomenclature), but he never even thought of, much less heard of, any germs. Streptococcus or bacillus such as get in us and kill us to Hippocrates were always undiscovered and unknown, And the grim appendicitis which today is sure to fright us, was by Dr. Hip considered but a stomach-achic groan. Were he living at this moment, would the world be in a foment? Would physicians of the present take him out to see the town? From New Jersey clear to Joppa not a one would call him "Papa," and his theories and treatments would be greeted with a frown. We must say that he was clever, and that in one way, however, he resembled all the others who are treating human ills— He was constantly complaining that in spite of all his training he could never cure his patients of the trait of dodging bills. The Scheming Iago. Iago as a villain was a master of his craft, And yet he did not work at all as modern villains do; No one can rise and say that bold Iago hoarsely laughed When some one demonstrated that his stories were untrue. He did not swagger on the stage in evening clothes, and mutter, Nor bite his finger nails in baffled anger now and then; He never turned and left the stage with nothing else to utter Except: "Aha! Proud beauty! I shall not be foiled again!" Iago did not hover near the old deserted mill To hurl the daring hero in the waters of the race; He never frowned and ground his teeth and burned the hidden will Or kidnapped any children just to complicate the case. Iago was not like the villains that we have at present; He didn't even try to scowl or to look like the part. Iago as a villain was continually pleasant, And never gave the notion that he had a stony heart. Othello was his victim—and Iago's work was good, But still Iago doesn't seem to get the proper praise; Othello, as the hero—as all proper heroes should— Stood calmly in the spotlight and corralled the wreathing bays. Since then there is no villain of the art of good Iago— At least we haven't seen an actor who approached him yet; The villains we have noticed from Galveston to Chicago Have hissed through black mustaches and have smoked the cigaret. Jonson entertaining a lady. O rare Ben Jonson, you who wrote "To Celia," Presager of that later note ,"Bedelia," To you, rare Ben, our hat we raise For all your poems and your plays. You knew, forsooth, if Shakespeare's work Was taken, Like copies by a scrawling clerk, From Bacon; You would have known of that flimflam Without a hidden cryptogram. O rare Ben Jonson, with your pen You labored, And with brave lords and gentlemen You neighbored— You never turned out feeble farce In sentences that would not parse. To managers you ne'er were made To grovel, And, Ben, you never called a spade A shovel— Where you wrote sentences risquÉ We now have costumes very gay. O rare Ben Jonson, when you asked That lady To drink, her name you never masked As "Sadie," Nor did you call her "Creole Belle" Or half the song names we might tell. "Drink to me only with thine eyes!" Your sighing Showed you no steins of any size Were buying. But from the way the stanzas run, You, rare Ben Jonson, were well done. Captain Kidd and Jolly Roger. Oh, William Kidd was a pirate bold, Yo ho, my lads, yo ho! He sailed the seas in search of gold, Yo ho, my lads, yo ho! He sailed on both sides of the line, The skull and bones he made his sign; Where he found wealth, he said: "That's mine!" Three centuries ago. Oh, William Kidd was a pirate bad, Three centuries ago, A very dark repute he had— Yo ho, my lads, yo ho! He'd board a ship and take its hoard, Then: "Walk the plank!" he fiercely roared, "The ship is all that I can board," Yo ho, my lads, yo ho! Oh, William Kidd was a pirate great, Yo ho, my lads, yo ho! He said: "I'll rob you while you wait"— Three centuries ago. He had a long, low, rakish craft With Long Toms both before and aft, And wickedly and loud he laughed, Yo ho, my lads, yo ho! Oh, William Kidd was a pirate big, Yo ho, my lads, yo ho! He feared no frigate, bark or brig, Yo ho, my lads, yo ho! And while his grim flag flapped and tossed Above the ship that Bill Kidd bossed, His victims knew just how they lost, Three centuries ago. Oh, William Kidd was a pirate then, Three centuries ago. If he should come to life again— Yo ho, my lads, yo ho! The chances are that he would just Go out and organize a trust— He knew the way to raise the dust Three centuries ago. Lucullus awaiting dinner. Lucullus was a fighter for a portion of his life; He won the bay and laurel by his prowess in the strife. He came back home a hero (and no doubt, just as today, They named a cocktail for him ere they looked the other way). But when Lucullus noticed he was losing grips on fame, He struck a happy notion to perpetuate his name. He took to giving dinners in a palace he had built— 'Tis said that lots was eaten and a sea of wine was spilt; That guests might order anything in dishes old or or new And get the very rarest, and a second order, too! Quick lunches or course dinners—anything a man could wish In the line of drinks or dainties; yet he was no nouveau riche. Lucullus won great battles, victories that he might boast, Yet today we recollect him merely as a lavish host. It is said that once he ordered quite the richest feast prepared But no guests came to enjoy it, and the busy chef was scared. "Is nobody here for dinner?" asked the flustered, pestered chef. "I am dining with Lucullus!" roared Lucullus. "Are you deaf?" But we think that one great reason for his never-dying fame, For the pure, unfading luster of his dinner-eating name, Is that though Lucullus feasted at a very great expense And sat down to simple breakfasts where the health foods were immense, He was gracious to his fellows, was considerate of each, And he never put his chestnuts in an after-dinner speech. Methuselah with his staff. Methuselah lived long ago— He was the Old Inhabitant Those times, but never had a show; His opportunities were scant. Although he lived nine centuries And three-score years and nine beside, The times he saw were not like these, A chance to spread he was denied. He could not seek the corner store And lunch on crackers, cheese and prunes, And there display his helpful lore Through mornings and through afternoons; He could not talk about the days When folks first saw the telegraph Or telephone; how their amaze Made better posted people laugh. He could not take the stranger out To some tall building, then say: "Here, An' for a good ways hereabout, I used to shoot the bear and deer." Skyscrapers were an unknown thing, Excepting Babel, in his land, And Babel only served to bring Speech that he could not understand. (Perhaps this Babel item is Anachronistic; as to that We'll say one pleasant thing was his: He never had to rent a flat.) Another joy in his career Was this: nobody ever told Methuselah the stated year When he should be considered old. At thirty-five he was not barred From working if he wanted to; He did not need a union card His daily labors to pursue; And when his hair was snowy white And age his manly form had bent, Nobody called him young and bright And ran him for vice-president. Newton underneath an apple tree. Now, Newton in the orchard felt an apple strike his head. "'Tis gravity! 'Tis gravity!" excitedly he said. Had you or I been sitting there a-thinking of this earth, As Newton was, and wondering about its size and girth, And just when we were figuring a long and heavy sum, The apple hit us on the mind and made our bald spot numb! We say, had you or I been there, as Newton was that day, Would there have been much gravity in what we had to say? This shows how great it is to have a scientific mind— An intellect that reaches out to see what it may find. Perchance an ordinary man in such a circumstance Would have got up and rubbed his head and done a little dance, And muttered things that gentle folks should scarcely ever state, And not concede the apple simply had to gravitate. Again we say, if Newton's place was held by you or I, Instead of gravity we might have thought of apple pie. You see (again we make the point that scientific minds Discover facts which any brain that's common never finds), You see, when Newton felt the jolt, his science did not stop— He simply meditated on "What made the apple drop?" And while in cogitation deep beneath the tree he lay, He mused: "It's odd that apples never drop the other way." Once more: If you or I had been beneath the apple tree, We might have howled: "Who was it threw that apple and hit me?" To finish this, however, with becoming gravity, We'll state that Newton lingered there beneath the apple tree; With logarithmic tables he discovered that the speed At which the apple fell was based on whence it fell—indeed, Had it dropped from the moon, we'll say, it would have grown so hot That it would have been melted up before to earth it got. Again, and finally, had you or I held Newton's seat, We should, like he did, take the apple up and start to eat. Omar writing his Rubaiyat. Old Omar, in a Tent he had to live, Yet gave to Verse such Time as he could give; Whereat the Critics rose and Hurled at Him: "The Stuff you write is only Tentative." Yet Khayyam never worried over that— He kept his Troubles underneath his Hat Except such Times as when he worked them up Into an Apt and Pleasing Rubaiyat. Fitzgerald, the Translator, took his Pen And made a flowing Version; yes, and then To show that he could keep it up a While, Translated all the Rubaiyat again. Now, is there any Home that Don't reveal O. Khayyam's volume resting by "Lucille," Bound in Limp Leather, with each Edge uncut, To show the Literary Sense we feel? And is there any town from York to Butte Wherein some Maiden fair don't Elocute Through Khayyam's easy-speaking poetry, With Musical Accomp'niment to suit? Aye, verily! And where the Parodist Who does not seek through all upon his List And come back at the last to Khayyam's work Each time to find New Chances he has missed? A Good Cigar, a ready Fountain Pen Or a Typewriter one can use, and then A book of Omar whence to draw the Thought— Oh, Parodies one will turn out again! Some black initial letters here and there, Perchance he also had E. Hubbard Hair— But anyhow old Khayyam set a Task To fill all his Successors with despair! Samuel Pepys at his writng desk. Perchance when he was working on The diary that bears his name In those far days, now dead and gone, He never dreamed about his fame. Yet now, from time to time, it is Heard from 'most everybody's lips— That magic, mellow name of his, The soft and pleasing name of Pepys. Again, when reading what he wrote, We live anew that ancient time (The book is one we often quote— The cheap editions are a dime); We mark his course through dingy streets And climb with him the palace steps; In fancy all of those one meets Remark: "Why, there goes Mr. Pepys!" He always had a seeing eye And hearing ear, and what he saw And what he heard he fain would try To set down, but evade the law And that is why in cipher dark The tale originally creeps— 'Twas thus, also, he made his mark, This man of truth and trouble, Pepys. Throughout his life he had his griefs And also had a little fun— He kept his eye upon his chiefs And tells the things they might have done If they had not done what they did. Ah, if each person now should keep his Own diary and raise the lid As did this honest Samuel Pepys! And so, you see, he made a name Whereon the critics sometimes pounce; It hardly ever sounds the same, It is so easy to pronounce. But still, there is an hour or so Of pleasure for the man who dips Into his book and comes to know Good Samuel Pepys, Peps or Pips. |
|