A Nonsense Anthology Part 23

This is the tale that was told to me, By that modest and truthful son of the sea.

And I envy the life of a second mate, Though captains curse him and sailors hate; For he ain't like some of the swabs I've seen, As would go and lie to a poor marine.

_J.J. Rache_.

THE WALLOPING WINDOW-BLIND

A capital s.h.i.+p for an ocean trip Was the "Walloping Window-blind"-- No gale that blew dismayed her crew Or troubled the captain's mind.

The man at the wheel was taught to feel Contempt for the wildest blow, And it often appeared, when the weather had cleared, That he'd been in his bunk below.

The boatswain's mate was very sedate, Yet fond of amus.e.m.e.nt, too; And he played hop-scotch with the starboard watch, While the captain tickled the crew.

And the gunner we had was apparently mad, For he sat on the after rail, And fired salutes with the captain's boots, In the teeth of the booming gale.

The captain sat in a commodore's hat And dined in a royal way On toasted pigs and pickles and figs And gummery bread each day.

But the cook was Dutch and behaved as such: For the food that he gave the crew Was a number of tons of hot-cross buns Chopped up with sugar and glue.

And we all felt ill as mariners will, On a diet that's cheap and rude; And we s.h.i.+vered and shook as we dipped the cook In a tub of his gluesome food.

Then nautical pride we laid aside, And we cast the vessel ash.o.r.e On the Gulliby Isles, where the Poohpooh smiles, And the Anagazanders roar.

Composed of sand was that favored land, And trimmed with cinnamon straws; And pink and blue was the pleasing hue Of the Tickletoeteaser's claws.

And we sat on the edge of a sandy ledge And shot at the whistling bee; And the Binnacle-bats wore water-proof hats As they danced in the sounding sea.

On rubagub bark, from dawn to dark, We fed, till we all had grown Uncommonly shrunk,--when a Chinese junk Came by from the torriby zone.

She was stubby and square, but we didn't much care, And we cheerily put to sea; And we left the crew of the junk to chew The bark of the rubagub tree.

_Charles E. Carryl_.

THE ROLLICKING MASTODON

A rollicking Mastodon lived in Spain, In the trunk of a Tranquil Tree.

His face was plain, but his jocular vein Was a burst of the wildest glee.

His voice was strong and his laugh so long That people came many a mile, And offered to pay a guinea a day For the fractional part of a smile.

The Rollicking Mastodon's laugh was wide-- Indeed, 't was a matter of family pride; And oh! so proud of his jocular vein Was the Rollicking Mastodon over in Spain.

The Rollicking Mastodon said one day, "I feel that I need some air, For a little ozone's a tonic for bones, As well as a gloss for the hair."

So he skipped along and warbled a song In his own triumphulant way.

His smile was bright and his skip was light As he chirruped his roundelay.

The Rollicking Mastodon tripped along, And sang what Mastodons call a song; But every note of it seemed to pain The Rollicking Mastodon over in Spain.

A Little Peetookle came over the hill, Dressed up in a bollitant coat; And he said, "You need some harroway seed, And a little advice for your throat."

The Mastodon smiled and said, "My child, There's a chance for your taste to grow.

If you polish your mind, you'll certainly find How little, how little you know."

The Little Peetookle, his teeth he ground At the Mastodon's singular sense of sound; For he felt it a sort of a musical stain On the Rollicking Mastodon over in Spain.

"Alas! and alas! has it come to this pa.s.s?"

Said the Little Peetookle. "Dear me!

It certainly seems your horrible screams Intended for music must be!"

The Mastodon stopped, his ditty he dropped, And murmured, "Good morning, my dear!

I never will sing to a sensitive thing That shatters a song with a sneer!"

The Rollicking Mastodon bade him "adieu."

Of course 't was a sensible thing to do; For Little Peetookle is spared the strain Of the Rollicking Mastodon over in Spain.

_Arthur Macy_.

THE SILVER QUESTION

The Sun appeared so smug and bright, One day, that I made bold To ask him what he did each night With all his surplus gold.

He flushed uncomfortably red, And would not meet my eye.

"I travel round the world," he said, "And travelling rates are high."

With frigid glance I pierced him through.

He squirmed and changed his tune.

Said he: "I will be frank with you: I lend it to the Moon."

"Poor thing! You know she's growing old And hasn't any folk.

She suffers terribly from cold, And half the time she's broke."

That evening on the beach I lay Behind a lonely dune, And as she rose above the bay I b.u.t.tonholed the Moon.

"Tell me about that gold," said I.

I saw her features fall.

"You see, it's useless to deny; The Sun has told me all."

"Sir!" she exclaimed, "how _can_ you try An honest Moon this way?

As for the gold, I put it by Against a rainy day."

I smiled and shook my head. "All right, If you _must_ know," said she, "I change it into silver bright Wherewith to tip the Sea."

"He is so faithful and so good, A most deserving case; If he should leave, I fear it would Be hard to fill his place."

When asked if they accepted tips, The waves became so rough; I thought of those at sea in s.h.i.+ps, And felt I'd said enough.

For if one virtue I have learned, 'Tis _tact_; so I forbore To press the matter, though I burned To ask one question more.