Bert Taylor - A line-o'-verse or two

Bzzng! into logs they will whip you,
Lumbermen greedy for gold.
To the pulp mill they will ship you.
Hearken, there’s worse to be told!

Lumbermen greedy for gold
Over your ruins will caper.
Hearken, there’s worse to be told:
You will be made into paper!

Over your ruins will caper
Murderous shavers and hooks.
You will be made into paper!
You will be made into books!

Murderous shavers and hooks
Swiftly your pride will diminish.
You will be made into books!
Horrible, horrible finish!

Swiftly your pride will diminish.
You will become a romance!
Horrible, horrible finish!
Fate has no sadder mischance.

You will become a romance,
Filled with “Gadzooks!” and “Have at you!”
Fate has no sadder mischance;
It would wring tears from a statue.

Filled with “Gadzooks!” and “Have at you!”
You may become a “Lazarre” —
(It would wring tears from a statue) —
“Graustark,” “Stovepipe of Navarre.”

You may become a “Lazarre”;
Fate has still worse it can turn on —
“Graustark,” “Stovepipe of Navarre,”
Even a “Dorothy Vernon”!

Fate has still worse it can turn on —
Lower you cannot descend;
Even a “Dorothy Vernon”! —
That is the limit – the end.

Lower you cannot descend.
Doomed to an end that is evil,
That is the limit – the end !
Pride of the forest primeval.

The dinner done, the lamp is lit,
And in its mellow glow we sit
And talk of matters, grave and gay,
That went to make another day.
Comes Little One, a book in hand,
With this request, nay, this command —
(For who’d gainsay the little sprite) —
“Please – will you read to me to-night?”

Read to you, Little One? Why, yes.
What shall it be to-night? You guess
You’d like to hear about the Bears —
Their bowls of porridge, beds and chairs?
Well, that you shall… There! that tale’s done!
And now – you’d like another one?
To-morrow evening, Curly Head.
It’s “hass-pass seven.” Off to bed!

So each night another story:
Wicked dwarfs and giants gory;
Dragons fierce and princes daring,
Forth to fame and fortune faring;
Wandering tots, with leaves for bed;
Houses made of gingerbread;
Witches bad and fairies good,
And all the wonders of the wood.

“I like the witches best,” says she
Who nightly nestles on my knee;
And why by them she sets such store,
Psychologists may puzzle o’er.
Her likes are mine, and I agree
With all that she confides to me.
And thus we travel, hand in hand,
The storied roads of Fairyland.

Ah, Little One, when years have fled,
And left their silver on my head,
And when the dimming eyes of age
With difficulty scan the page,
Perhaps I’ll turn the tables then;
Perhaps I’ll put the question, when
I borrow of your better sight —
“Please – will you read to me to-night?”

John Spratt will eat no fat,
Nor will he touch the lean;
He scorns to eat of any meat,
He lives upon Foodine.

But Mrs. Spratt will none of that,
Foodine she cannot eat;
Her special wish is for a dish
Of Expurgated Wheat.

To William Spratt that food is flat
On which his mater dotes.
His favorite feed – his special need —
Is Eata Heapa Oats.

But sister Lil can’t see how Will
Can touch such tasteless food.
As breakfast fare it can’t compare,
She says, with Shredded Wood.

Now, none of these Leander please,
He feeds upon Bath Mitts.
While sister Jane improves her brain
With Cero-Grapo-Grits.

Lycurgus votes for Father’s Oats;
Proggine appeals to May;
The junior John subsists upon
Uneeda Bayla Hay.

Corrected Wheat for little Pete;
Flaked Pine for Dot; while “Bub”
The infant Spratt is waxing fat
On Battle Creek Near-Grub.

Comes little lady, a book in hand,
A light in her eyes that I understand,
And her cheeks aglow from the faery breeze
That sweeps across the uncharted seas.
She gives me the book, and her word of praise
A ton of critical thought outweighs.
“I’ve finished it, daddie!” – a sigh thereat.
“Are there any more books in the world like that?”

No, little lady. I grieve to say
That of all the books in the world to-day
There’s not another that’s quite the same
As this magic book with the magic name.
Volumes there be that are pure delight,
Ancient and yellowed or new and bright;
But – little and thin, or big and fat —
There are no more books in the world like that.

And what, little lady, would I not give
For the wonderful world in which you live!
What have I garnered one-half as true
As the tales Titania whispers you?
Ah, late we learn that the only truth
Was that which we found in the Book of Youth.
Profitless others, and stale, and flat; —
There are no more books in the world like that.

Up in the woodland where Spring
Comes as a laggard, the breeze
Whispers the pines that the King,
Fallen, has yielded the keys
To his White Palace and flees
Northward o’er mountain and dale.
Speed then the hour that frees!
Ho, for the pack and the trail!

Northward my fancy takes wing,
Restless am I, ill at ease.
Pleasures the city can bring
Lose now their power to please.
Barren, all barren, are these,
Town life’s a tedious tale;
That cup is drained to the lees —
Ho, for the pack and the trail!

Ho, for the morning I sling
Pack at my back, and with knees
Brushing a thoroughfare, fling
Into the green mysteries:
One with the birds and the bees,
One with the squirrel and quail,
Night, and the stream’s melodies —
Ho, for the pack and the trail!

Pictures and music and teas,
Theaters – books even – stale.
Ho, for the smell of the trees!
Ho, for the pack and the trail!

Why, when the sun is gold,
The weather fine,
The air (this phrase is old)
Like Gascon wine; —

Why, when the leaves are red,
And yellow, too,
And when (as has been said)
The skies are blue; —

Why, when all things promote
One’s peace and joy, —
A joy that is (to quote)
Without alloy; —

Why, when a man’s well off,
Happy and gay,
Why must he go play golf
And spoil his day!

Twas in a vault beneath the street,
In the trench of the traction rope,
That I found a guy with a fishy eye
And a think tank filled with dope.