Successful Recitations Part 68

_Charles_ hath not many lines to speak, Nay, not a single length-- If find we can a Mussulman (That is, a man of strength), And bring him on the stage as _Charles_-- But, alas, it can't be did--"

"It can," replied the Treasurer; "Let's get the Hunky Kid."

This Hunky Kid of whom he spoke Belonged to the P.R.; He always had his hair cut short, And always had catarrh; His voice was gruff, his language rough, His forehead villainous low, And 'neath his broken nose a vast Expanse of jaw did show.

He was forty-eight about the chest, And his fore-arm at the mid- Dle measured twenty-one and a-half-- Such was the Hunky Kid!

The Am. Dram. a.s.s. they have engaged This pet of the P.R.; As _Charles the Wrestler_ he's to be A bright particular star.

And when they put the programme out, Announce him thus they did: _Oriando_...Mr. ROMEO JONES; _Charles_...Mr. HUNKY KID.

The night has come; the house is packed, From pit to gallery, As those who through the curtain peep Quake inwardly to see.

A squeak's heard in the orchestra, As the leader draws across Th' intestines of the agile cat The tail of the n.o.ble hoss.

All is at sea behind the scenes, Why do they fear and funk?

Alas, alas, the Hunky Kid Is lamentably drunk!

He's in that most unlovely stage Of half intoxication When men resent the hint they're tight As a personal imputation!

"Ring up! Ring up!" _Orlando_ cried, "Or we must cut the scene; For _Charles the Wrestler_ is imbued With poisonous benzine; And every moment gets more drunk Than he before has been."

The wrestling scene has come and _Charles_ Is much disguised in drink; The stage to him's an inclined plane, The footlights make him blink.

Still strives he to act well his part Where all the honour lies, Though Shakespeare would not in his lines-- His language recognise.

Instead of "Come, where is this young----?"

This man of bone and brawn, He squares himself and bellows: "Time!

Fetch your _Orlandos_ on!"

"Now, Hercules be thy speed, young man,"

Fair _Rosalind_ said she, As the two wrestlers in the ring Grapple right furiously; But _Charles the Wrestler_ had no sense Of dramatic propriety.

He seized on Mr. Romeo Jones, In Graeco-Roman style: He got what they call a grape-vine lock On that leading juvenile; He flung him into the orchestra, And the man with the ophicleide, On whom he fell, he just said--well, No matter what--and died!

When once the tiger has tasted blood And found that it is sweet, He has a habit of killing more Than he can possibly eat.

And thus it was with the Hunky Kid; In his homicidal blindness, He lifted his hand against _Rosalind_ Not in the way of kindness; He chased poor _Celia_ off at L., At R.U.E. _Le Beau_, And he put such a head upon _Duke Fred_, In fifteen seconds or so, That never one of the courtly train Might his haughty master know.

And that's precisely what came to pa.s.s, Because the luckless carles Belonging to the Am. Dram. a.s.s.

Cast the Hunky Kid for _Charles!_

--_New York World_.

A BALLAD OF A BAZAAR.

BY CAMPBELL RAE-BROWN.

_First Day_.

He was young, and she--enchanting!

She had eyes of tender grey, Fringed with long and lovely lashes, As he pa.s.sed they seemed to say, With a look that was quite killing, "Won't you buy a pretty flower?

Come, invest--well, just a s.h.i.+lling, For the fairest in my bower!"

Though that bower was full of blossoms, Yet the fairest of them all Was the pretty grey-eyed maiden Standing 'mong them, slim and tall, With her dainty arms uplifted O'er her figure as she stood Just inside the trellised doorway Fas.h.i.+oned out of rustic wood; And she pouted as he pa.s.sed her, And that pout did so beguile, That he thought it more bewitching Than another's sweetest smile.

Fair as tiny dew-dipped rosebuds Were the little rounded lips; And the youth ransacked his pockets In a rhapsody of grips.

Then he went and told her plainly That he'd not a farthing left, But would gladly pledge his "Albert"; So with fingers quick and deft, She unloosed his golden watch-chain-- Coiled it round her own white arm, Said she'd keep it till the morrow As a _souvenir_--a charm.

_Second Day_.

Full of hope, and faith, and fondness, He went forth at early morn, And paced up and down the entrance, Like a man that was forlorn.

Thus for hour on hour he waited, Till they opened the bazaar; Then she came with kindly greeting; "Ah, well, so then, there you are!

Come, now, go in for a raffle-- Buy a ticket--half-a-crown."

Ah, those eyes! who _could_ refuse them?-- And he put the money down.

Then, enthralled, he stood and watched her-- Sought each movement of that face, With its wealth of witching beauty, And its glory and its grace.

When the raffling was over, Thus she spake in tones of pain: "You are really most unlucky-- My--my _husband's_ won _your chain_!"

A PARENTAL ODE TO MY SON, AGED THREE YEARS AND FOUR MONTHS.

BY THOMAS HOOD.

Thou happy, happy elf!

(But stop--first let me kiss away that tear) Thou tiny image of myself?

(My love, he's poking peas into his ear) Thou merry laughing sprite!

With spirits feather-light, Untouched by sorrow and unsoiled by sin-- (Good heavens! the child is swallowing a pin!)

Thou tricksy Puck!

With antic toys so funnily bestuck, Light as the singing bird that wings the air-- (The door! the door! he'll tumble down the stair!) Thou darling of thy sire!

(Why Jane, he'll set his pinafore on fire) Thou imp of mirth and joy, In Love's dear chain so strong and bright a link, Thou idol of thy parents--(drat the boy!

There goes my ink!)

Thou cherub!--but of earth, Fit playfellow for Fays by moonlight pale, In harmless sport and mirth, (That dog will bite him if he pulls its tail) Thou human honey-bee, extracting honey From every blossom in the world that blows, Singing in Youth's Elysium ever sunny-- (Another tumble!--that's his precious nose!)

Thy father's pride and hope (He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope!) With pure heart newly stamped from Nature's mint (Where _did_ he learn that squint?) Thou young domestic dove!

(He'll have that jug off with another shove!) Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest!

(Are those torn clothes his best?) Little epitome of man!

(He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan!) Touched with the beauteous trials of dawning life-- (He's got a knife!)

Thou enviable being!

No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing, Play on, play on, My elfin John!

Toss the light ball--bestride the stick, (I knew so many cakes would make him sick!) With fancies buoyant as the thistledown, Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk, With many a lamb-like frisk-- (He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown!)

Thou pretty opening rose!

(Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!) Balmy and breathing music like the South, (He really brings my heart into my mouth!) Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star, (I wish that window had an iron bar!) Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove-- (I'll tell you what, my love, I cannot write, unless he's sent above.)