Successful Recitations Part 70

First, he tried to murder Min-Ne With a special cup of poison'd tea, But the lady smelling a mortal foe, Cried, "Ho-Ho!

I'm very fond of mild Souchong, But you, my love, you make it too strong."

At last Ho-Ho, the treacherous man, Contrived the most infernal plan Invented since the world began; He went and got him a savage dog, Who'd eat a woman as soon as a frog; Kept him a day without any prog, Then shut him up in an iron bin, Slipp'd the bolt and locked him in; Then giving the key To poor Min-Ne, Said, "Love, there's something you _mustn't_ see In the chest beneath the orange-tree."

Poor mangled Min-Ne! with her latest breath She told her father the cause of her death; And so it reach'd the Emperor's ear, And his highness said, "It is very clear Ho-Ho has committed a murder here!"

And he doom'd Ho-Ho to end his life By the terrible dog that kill'd his wife; But in mercy (let his praise be sung!) His thirteen brothers were merely hung, And his slaves bamboo'd in the mildest way, For a calendar month, three times a day.

And that's the way that Justice dealt With wicked Ho-Ho of the Golden Belt!

THE HIRED SQUIRREL.

_A RUSSIAN FABLE_.

BY LAURA SANFORD.

A lion to the Squirrel said: "Work faithfully for me, And when your task is done, my friend, Rewarded you shall be With a barrel-full of finest nuts, Fresh from my own nut-tree."

"My Lion King," the Squirrel said, "To this I do agree."

The Squirrel toiled both day and night, Quite faithful to his hire; So hungry and so faint sometimes He thought he should expire.

But still he kept his courage up, And tugged with might and main, "How nice the nuts will taste," he thought, "When I my barrel gain."

At last, when he was nearly dead, And thin and old and grey, Quoth th' Lion: "There's no more hard work You're fit to do. I'll pay."

A barrel-full of nuts he gave-- Ripe, rich, and big; but oh!

The Squirrel's tears ran down his cheeks.

He'd _lost his teeth_, you know!

BALLAD OF THE TRAILING SKIRT.

NEW YORK "LIFE."

I met a girl the other day, A girl with golden tresses, Who wore the most bewitching air, And daintiest of dresses.

I gazed at her with kindling eye And admiration utter-- Until I saw her silken skirt Was trailing in the gutter!

"What senseless style is this?" I thought; "What new sartorial pa.s.sion?

And who on earth stands sponsor for The idiotic fas.h.i.+on?"

I've asked a dozen maids or more, A tailor and his cutter, But no one knows why skirts are made To drag along the gutter.

Alas for woman, fas.h.i.+on's slave; She does not seem to mind it.

Her silk or satin sweeps the street And leaves no filth behind it.

For all the dirt the breezes blow And all the germs that flutter May find a refuge in the gowns That swish along the gutter.

What lovely woman wills to do She does without a reason.

To interfere is waste of time, To criticise is treason.

Man's only province is to work To earn his bread and b.u.t.ter-- And buy her all the skirts she wants To trail along the gutter.

TO THE GIRL IN KHAKI.

"MODERN SOCIETY."

I put the question shyly, Lest you inform me dryly That women's ways are far beyond my ken; But was not khaki chosen For coats and breeks and hosen To render men invisible to men?

Why, then, dear maid, do you Forsake your gayest hue And dress in viewless khaki spick and span?

You charming little miss, It never can be this: To render you invisible to man!

Not that at all? What then?

You do _not_ fear the men: Perchance you only wish to hide your heart, And so, you fickle flirt, You don a khaki skirt To foil the deadly aim of Cupid's dart.

THE TENDER HEART.

BY HELEN GRAY CONE.

She gazed upon the burnished brace Of partridges he showed with pride; Angelic grief was in her face; "How _could_ you do it, dear?" she sighed, "The poor, pathetic, moveless wings!

The songs all hushed--oh, cruel shame!"

Said he, "The partridge never sings."

Said she, "The sin is quite the same.

"You men are savage through and through.

A boy is always bringing in Some string of bird's eggs, white or blue, Or b.u.t.terfly upon a pin.

The angle-worm in anguish dies, Impaled, the pretty trout to tease----"

"My own, I fish for trout with flies----"

"Don't wander from the question, please!"

She quoted Burns's "Wounded Hare,"

And certain burning lines of Blake's, And Ruskin on the fowls of air, And Coleridge on the water-snakes.

At Emerson's "Forbearance" he Began to feel his will benumbed; At Browning's "Donald" utterly His soul surrendered and succ.u.mbed.

"Oh, gentlest of all gentle girls,"