The Legend of Heinz Von Stein Far and near and middle distance, In our everyday existence. While the ancient law fulfills, Myriad moons shall wane and wax. 49 Bert Leston Taylor. TO MINERVA My temples throb, my pulses boil, I'm sick of Song and Ode and BalladSo Thyrsis, take the midnight oil, And pour it on a lobster salad. My brain is dull, my sight is foul, Thomas Hood. THE LEGEND OF HEINZ VON STEIN Our rode from his wild, dark castle He came to the door of a tavern He sat himself down at a table, And growled for a bottle of wine; Up came with a flask and a corkscrew A maiden of beauty divine. Then, seized with a deep love-longing, To the valorous Ritter von Stein!" But she answered, "The kissing business On a countenance ugly as thine!” Oh, then the bold knight was angry, And fiercely he rode to the castle And this is the dreadful legend Of the terrible Heinz von Stein. Charles Godfrey Leland. THE TRUTH ABOUT HORACE Ir is very aggravating To hear the solemn prating There's really not much harm in a Propinquity Needed So they'd squelch the muse caloric, What old Horace meant for facts. We have always thought 'em lazy; That was very much alive! It is No. 25. He was a very owl, sir, You bet he made Rome howl, sir, With a massic-laden ditty He painted up the city, And Mæcenas paid the freight! Eugene Field. PROPINQUITY NEEDED CELESTINE Silvousplait Justine de Mouton Rosalie, (Which isn't saying much). Maurice Boulanger (there's a name that would adorn a king), But Morris Baker was the name they called the man I sing. He lived in New York City in the Street that's labeled Spring (Chosen because it rhymed). Now Baker was a lonesome youth and wanted to be wed, ! And had he met Celestine, not a doubt but Cupid's darts Would in a trice have wounded both of their fond, loving hearts; But he has never left New York to stray in foreign parts (Because he hasn't the price). And she has never left Paree and so, of course, you see There's not the slightest chance at all she'll marry Morris B. For love to get well started, really needs propinquity (Hence my title). Charles Battell Loomis. IN THE CATACOMBS SAM BROWN was a fellow from way down East, No tale of marvellous beast or bird If they told him of Italy's sunny clime, If they marvelled at Etna's fount of fire, With an injured air He'd reply, "I swear I don't think much of a smokin' hill; We've got a moderate little rill Kin make yer old volcaner still; Jes' pour old Kennebec down the crater, 'N' I guess it'll cool her fiery nater!" They showed him a room where a queen had slept; 66 "Twan't up to the tavern daddy kept." They showed him Lucerne; but he had drunk From the beautiful Molechunkamunk. They took him at last to ancient Rome, And inveigled him into a catacomb: Our Native Birds Here they plied him with draughts of wine, They piled old skeletons round the stone, Then watched from a distance the taper's gleam, After a time the Yankee woke, But instantly saw through the flimsy joke; Can't none o' you Romans start, I wonder? Harlan Hoge Ballard. OUR NATIVE BIRDS ALONE I sit at eventide; The twilight glory pales, And o'er the meadows far and wide Song-sparrows warble on the tree, 53 |