Successful Recitations Part 71

He thought, "beneath the blessed sun!"

He saw her lashes hung with pearls, And swore to give away his gun.

She smiled to find her point was gained, And went, with happy parting words (He subsequently ascertained), To trim her hat with humming-birds.

A SONG OF SARATOGA.

BY JOHN G. SAXE.

"Pray what do they do at the Springs?"

The question is easy to ask: But to answer it fully, my dear, Were rather a serious task.

And yet, in a bantering way, As the magpie or mocking-bird sings, I'll venture a bit of a song, To tell what they do at the Springs.

_Imprimis_, my darling, they drink The waters so sparkling and clear; Though the flavour is none of the best, And the odour exceedingly queer; But the fluid is mingled, you know, With wholesome medicinal things; So they drink, and they drink, and they drink-- And that's what they do at the Springs!

Then with appet.i.tes keen as a knife, They hasten to breakfast, or dine; The latter precisely at three, The former from seven till nine.

Ye G.o.ds! what a rustle and rush, When the eloquent dinner-bell rings!

Then they eat, and they eat, and they eat-- And that's what they do at the Springs!

Now they stroll in the beautiful walks, Or loll in the shade of the trees; Where many a whisper is heard That never is heard by the breeze; And hands are commingled with hands, Regardless of conjugal rings: And they flirt, and they flirt, and they flirt-- And that's what they do at the Springs!

The drawing-rooms now are ablaze, And music is shrieking away; Terpsich.o.r.e governs the hour, And fas.h.i.+on was never so gay!

An arm round a tapering waist-- How closely and fondly it clings!

So they waltz, and they waltz, and they waltz-- And that's what they do at the Springs!

In short--as it goes in the world-- They eat, and they drink, and they sleep; They talk, and they walk, and they woo; They sigh, and they laugh, and they weep; They read, and they ride, and they dance (With other remarkable things): They pray, and they play, and they PAY-- And _that's_ what they do at the Springs!

THE SEA.

BY EVA L. OGDEN.

She was rich and of high degree; A poor and unknown artist he.

"Paint me," she said, "a view of the sea."

So he painted the sea as it looked the day That Aphrodite arose from its spray; And it broke, as she gazed in its face the while Into its countless-dimpled smile.

"What a pokey stupid picture," said she; "I don't believe he _can_ paint the sea!"

Then he painted a raging, tossing sea, Storming, with fierce and sudden shock, Wild cries, and writhing tongues of foam, A towering, mighty fastness-rock.

In its sides above those leaping crests, The thronging sea-birds built their nests.

"What a disagreeable daub!" said she; "Why it isn't anything like the sea!"

Then he painted a stretch of hot, brown sand, With a big hotel on either hand, And a handsome pavilion for the band,-- Not a sign of the water to be seen Except one faint little streak of green.

"What a perfectly exquisite picture," said she; "It's the very _image_ of the sea."

--_Century Magazine_.

A TALE OF A NOSE.

BY CHARLES F. ADAMS.

'Twas a hard case, that which happened in Lynn.

Haven't heard of it, eh? Well, then, to begin, There's a Jew down there whom they call "Old Mose,"

Who travels about, and buys old clothes.

Now Mose--which the same is short for Moses-- Had one of the biggest kind of noses: It had a sort of an instep in it, And he fed it with snuff about once a minute.

One day he got in a bit of a row With a German chap who had kissed his _frau_, And, trying to punch him _a la_ Mace, Had his nose cut off close up to his face.

He picked it up from off the ground, And quickly back in its place 'twas bound, Keeping the bandage upon his face Until it had fairly healed in place.

Alas for Mose! 'Twas a sad mistake Which he in his haste that day did make; For, to add still more to his bitter cup, He found he had placed it _wrong side up_.

"There's no great loss without some gain;"

And Moses says, in a jocular vein, He arranged it so for taking snuff, As he never before could get enough.

One thing, by the way, he forgets to add, Which makes the arrangement rather bad: Although he can take his snuff with ease, He has to stand on his head to sneeze!

LEEDLE YAWCOB STRAUSS.

BY CHARLES F. ADAMS.

I haf von funny leedle poy Vot gomes schust to my knee-- Der queerest schap, der createst rogue As efer you dit see.

He runs, und schumps, and schmashes dings In all barts off der house.

But vot off dot? He vas mine son, Mine leedle Yawcob Strauss.

He get der measels und der mumbs, Und eferyding dot's oudt; He sbills mine gla.s.s of lager-bier, Foots schnuff indo mine kraut; He fills mine pipe mit Limburg cheese-- Dot vas der roughest chouse; I'd dake dot vrom no oder poy But leedle Yawcob Strauss.

He dakes der milk-ban for a dhrum, Und cuts mine cane in dwo To make der schticks to beat it mit-- Mine cracious, dot vas drue!

I d.i.n.ks mine hed vas schplit abart, He kicks oup such a touse!

But nefer mind, der poys vas few Like dot young Yawcob Strauss.

He asks me questions sooch as dese: Who baints mine nose so red?

Who vas it cuts dot schmoodth blace oudt Vrom der hair ubon mine hed?

Und vhere der plaze goes vrom der lamp Vene'er der glim I douse?

How gan I all dese dings eggsblain To dot schmall Yawcob Strauss.

I somedimes d.i.n.k I schall go vild Mit sooch a grazy poy, Und vish vonce more I gould haf rest Und beaceful dimes enshoy, But ven he vas ashleep in ped, So quiet as a mouse, I prays der Lord, "Dake anydings, But leaf dot Yawcob Strauss."