Some Thoughts Thought Whilst Havin’ To Bathe In A Bath-Tub

I don’t like bathin’ in a bath-tub. Say! It’s no more like a good old swimmin’-hole Where you can dive right in and splash and roll Or anything you please, than work’s like play! Some afternoon of a hot summer day When thou from school and poky things hast stole, Oh, ain’t it good for heart and brain and soul To plunge right in and swim your own sweet way?

I pity folks who bathe where they must wear A bathin’-suit! I wouldst have none in mine. Give me a good old shady corner where Nobody’s lookin’. That’s what I call “fine!” And when I bathe in this sawed-off affair, The swimmin’-hole’s the thing for which I pine.

LINES WROTE IN SCHOOL WHILST THROWIN’ GLANCES AT SUSAN SANDERSON

“Oh, what is love?” the poet asks. I guess I’dst better tell him. When a girl’s cheeks seem As fascinatin’ to you as ice-cream, And though snub-nosed and freckled, more or less, She’s still the phantom of pure loveliness That ever and anon athwart your dream Comes stealin’, whilst you scheme and scheme and scheme To be where she is, thou ’rt in love! Oh, yes!

When you keep thinkin’ how you’dst squeeze her hand If sometime thou couldst be her little glove, And if thou feelst that thou wouldst like to stand, With only just the frosty stars above, In some big snowdrift ’neath her window and Stay there forever, then thou art in love!

THOUGHTS THOUGHT WHILST MOWIN’ THE LAWN ON A SATURDAY AFTERNOON

O Circus Day! So very brief art thou, From early morn when first doth rise the tent Till midnight comes and all the show hath went; Thou ’rt like a swiftly passin’ dream. Oh, how I wish the laggin’ tasks that wet the brow With per-spi-ra-tion (sweat is what I meant) Would haste as thou dost haste. How different This world wouldst be from what we find it now!

Or ’twouldst be better still if time wouldst pass, Whilst laughin’ at the antics of the clown, As slow as run’st the sands within the glass Whilst I, ’neath sun that almost melts me down, Must mow the lawn. O Fate, why must, alas! Thy smile be so much shorter than thy frown?

SONNET WROTE ON THE FLY-LEAF OF MY GRAMMAR DURIN’ SCHOOL HOURS

O Education! Maybe thou art all Our teachers tell us, but just let me say That if my folks wouldst let me have my way, From early Spring till frost comes in the Fall I’dst be outdoors, you bet! a-playin’ ball Or otherwise enjoyin’ each fine day. It seem’st a shame for boys to have to stay Like culprits shut in by a prison wall!

I guess if you get rich folks wilt not care If you don’tst know your grammar to a T, For baby boys, you’llst find ’most everywhere, Art named for uncles who hast money, see? Though they hain’tst got no learnin’ they canst spare Nor never spell their ’taters with a p.

THOUGHTS THOUGHT ON HEARIN’ FOLKS FIND FAULT WITH THE WEATHER

I love cold winter weather with the snow A-driftin’ on the walks I hast to clear, And frost a-bitin’ nose and cheek and ear, With the thermometer “away below.” I also love the summer when it’s so Red-hot that clothes next to you all “adhere” And everybody’s frantic, pretty near, And sayin’ things that hot folks dost, you know?

I love both seasons, but I wish I could Enjoy them whilst they’re with us, for, you see, It’s winter when the summer seem’st so good, And summer when the winter pleases me. But, somehow, I have never understood Why either of them whilst it’s here’s “n. g.”

LINES WROTE AFTER SEEIN’ SHAKESPEARE’S HAMLET FROM AN UPPER GALLERY

O Shakespeare! Thou whom’st all the world dost think Hast written some good things, I, too, wouldst pay My best respects to thee; yet, wouldst I say That whilst I like thee yet I dost not shrink From tellin’ thee that thou art on the “blink” And very sadly out of date to-day. Still, if thou’lt follow my advice thou may Still count as one of us, and get more “chink.”

Your plays ain’t any good the way they stand: Thou ought’st to tone them up with something nice: Some coon-songs, fire-engines, blood-hounds and A swingin’ bridge and chunks of floatin’ ice Wouldst make your old plays draw to beat the band, And folks wouldst crowd your show at any price!

SONNET WROTE WHILST RETROSPECTIVELY CONTEMPLATIN’ MY FIRST CIGAR

Oh, woe is me! and other things like that! Yestreen I soughtst to smoke my first cigar: It gav’st my system a tremendous jar! I didst not have the gumption of a gnat. All night I couldst not tell where I wast at. I wish I knew just what those cheap smokes are; It seem’st to me they’re made of glue and tar. Ah, me! I’m weaker than a half-starved cat.

Oh, let them smoke henceforth, say’st I, who will, For who am I that I shouldst dare condemn Their vile tobacco? I have hadst my fill: Let others have it; I sha’n’tst envy them, For I’llst not never smoke no more until I’m ten times older than Mathusalem!

SONNET WROTE WHILST THINKIN’ ABOUT A VACATION SPENT ON A FARM

O Farmer, independentest of all Mankind art thou! I know, because, last year I spent my whole vacation, pretty near, On Uncle Eben’s farm, and though I’m small, I hoed the corn and beans, and helped him haul And stack his hay. I’dst work until I’dst fear I’dst just drop down and end my sad career Before they’dst give the welcome dinner call.

My uncle dost not weigh his words with care, For once he told me that I wast a shirk; But I wouldst rather breathe the country air Than be a shut-in office-boy or clerk; For I found out whilst visitin’ out there That I like farmin’, but I hate farm work.

LINES COMPOSED AFTER SEEIN’ A BOOK FULL OF BYRON’S LOVE LETTERS

One reason why I’m ’most afraid to get So famous like we poets always do, Is that they’ll print my spoony letters, too, As is the way with all of us who let Our fancies caper. Hadst I thought whilst yet Unknown, I’dst be a poet, quite a few Endearin’ words with which I soughtst to woo More girls than one I’dst not have wrote, you bet!

If Susan Sanderson shouldst find I sent The valentine I saidst I wrote for her To Jane Jones, too, the thirty cents I’ve spent For soda water’s wasted, I’dst infer: Why must we poets do things we’ll repent? And oh! why thus didst me and Byron err?

SONNET WROTE AFTER HEARIN’ A YOUTH ORATIN’ ABOUT “CASABIANCA”

O Boy, that stood’st upon the burnin’ deck And gotst thyself in our school readers and The “Whoop-’er-up” school speakers of our land Because thou wouldst not leave that sinkin’ wreck, Oh, don’tst thou think if thou hadst saved thy neck And wisely cut and run to beat the band, Thou couldst have later done things still more grand? Alas! too soon didst death thy valor check!

Oh, didst thou stay because thou couldst not swim? Or wast it fame for which thy heart didst yearn? Of course thou gotst a name time canst not dim, But seemst to me that all I canst discern In thy foolhardy, stickin’-to-it whim Is that thou deemed the world hadst boys to burn.