  Thomas Harrison Robertson, erstwhile poet and novelist, and now a well-known journalist, was born at Murfreesboro, Tennessee, January 16, 1856. He was educated at the University of Virginia, after which he settled at Louisville, Kentucky, as a newspaper man, verse-maker, and fictionist. Mr. Robertson has held almost every position on The Courier-Journal, being managing editor at the present time. He won his first fame with a Kentucky racing story, the best one ever written, entitled How the Derby Was Won, which was originally published in Scribner's Magazine for August, 1889. Ten years later his first long novel, If I Were a Man (New York, 1899), "the story of a New-Southerner," appeared, and it was followed by Red Blood and Blue (New York, 1900); The Inlander (New York, 1901); The Opponents (New York, 1902); and his most recent novel, The Pink Typhoon (New York, 1906), an automobile love story of slight merit. In the early eighties "T. H. Robertson" wrote some of the very cleverest verse, so-called society verse for the most part, that has ever been done by a Kentucky hand; but he soon abandoned "Thomas" and the Muse. The writer has always held that our literature lost a charming poet to win a feeble fictionist when Harrison Robertson changed literary steads, although his How the Derby Was Won must not be forgotten. Now, however, he has given up the literary life for the daily grind of a great newspaper; and he may never publish another poem or novel. More's the pity!
TWO TRIOLETS [From A Vers de SocÍetÉ Anthology, by Caroline Wells (New York, 1907)] I What He Said: This kiss upon your fan I press— Ah! Sainte Nitouche, you don't refuse it? And may it from its soft recess— This kiss upon your fan I press— Be blown to you, a shy caress, By this white down, whene'er you use it. This kiss upon your fan I press— Ah, Sainte Nitouche, you don't refuse it! II What She Thought: To kiss a fan! What a poky poet! The stupid man, To kiss a fan, When he knows that—he—can— Or ought to know it— To kiss a fan! What a poky poet! STORY OF THE GATE [From the same] Across the pathway, myrtle-fringed, Under the maple, it was hinged— 'Twas there within the quiet gloam, When I had strolled with Nelly home, I used to pause and wait. Before I said to her good-night Yet loath to leave the winsome sprite Within the garden's pale; And there, the gate between us two, We'd linger as all lovers do, And lean upon the rail. And face to face, eyes close to eyes, Hands meeting hands in feigned surprise, After a stealthy quest,— So close I'd bend, ere she'd retreat, That I'd grow drunken from the sweet Tuebrose upon her breast. We'd talk—in fitful style, I ween— With many a meaning glance between The tender words and low; We'd whisper some dear, sweet conceit, Some idle gossip we'd repeat, And then I'd move to go. "Good-night," I'd say; "good-night—good-by!" "Good-night"—from her with half a sigh— "Good-night!" "Good-night!" And then— And then I do not go, but stand, Again lean on the railing, and— Begin it all again. Ah! that was many a day ago— That pleasant summer-time—although The gate is standing yet; A little cranky, it may be, A little weather-worn—like me— The happy—"End?" My cynic friend, Pray save your sneers—there was no "end." Watch yonder chubby thing! That is our youngest, hers and mine; See how he climbs, his legs to twine About the gate and swing. |
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