Chimneysmoke Part 5

SMELLS (JUNIOR)

My Daddy smells like tobacco and books, Mother, like lavender and listerine; Uncle John carries a whiff of cigars, Nannie smells starchy and soapy and clean.

Shandy, my dog, has a smell of his own (When he's been out in the rain he smells most); But Katie, the cook, is more splendid than all-- She smells exactly like hot b.u.t.tered toast!

[Ill.u.s.tration: _But Katie, the cook, is more splendid than all_--]

MAR QUONG, CHINESE LAUNDRYMAN

I like the Chinese laundryman: He smokes a pipe that bubbles, And seems, as far as I can tell, A man with but few troubles.

He has much to do, no doubt, But also much to think about.

Most men (for instance I myself) Are spending, at all times, All our hard-earned quarters, Our nickels and our dimes: With Mar Quong it's the other way-- He takes in small change every day.

Next time you call for collars In his steamy little shop, Observe how tight his pigtail Is coiled and piled on top.

But late at night he lets it hang And thinks of the Yang-tse-kiang.

THE FAT LITTLE PURSE

On Sat.u.r.days, after the baby Is bathed, fed, and sleeping serene, His mother, as quickly as may be, Arranges the household routine.

She rapidly makes herself pretty And leaves the young limb with his nurse, Then gaily she starts for the city, And with her the fat little purse.

She trips through the crowd at the station, To the rendezvous spot where we meet, And keeping her eyes from temptation, She avoids the most windowy street!

She is off for the Weekly Adventure; To her comrade for better and worse She says, "Never mind, when you've spent your Last bit, here's the fat little purse."

Apart, in her thrifty exchequer, She has hidden what must not be spent: Enough for the butcher and baker, Katie's wages, and milkman, and rent; But the rest of her brave little treasure She is gleeful and prompt to disburse-- What a richness of innocent pleasure Can come from her fat little purse!

But either by giving or buying, The little purse does not stay fat-- Perhaps it's a ragged child crying, Perhaps it's a "pert little hat."

And the bonny brown eyes that were brightened By pleasures so quaint and diverse, Look up at me, wistful and frightened, To see such a thin little purse.

The wisest of all financiering Is that which is done by our wives: By some little known profiteering They add twos and twos and make fives; And, husband, if you would be learning The secret of thrift, it is terse: Invest the great part of your earning In her little, fat little purse.

[Ill.u.s.tration: _Perhaps it's a ragged child crying_]

THE REFLECTION (To N. B. D.)

I have not heard her voice, nor seen her face, Nor touched her hand; And yet some echo of her woman's grace I understand.

I have no picture of her lovelihood, Her smile, her tint; But that she is both beautiful and good I have true hint.

In all that my friend thinks and says, I see Her mirror true; His thought of her is gentle; she must be All gentle too.

In all his grief or laughter, work or play, Each mood and whim, How brave and tender, day by common day, She speaks through him!

Therefore I say I know her, be her face Or dark or fair-- For when he shows his heart's most secret place I see her there!

THE BALLOON PEDDLER

Who is the man on Chestnut street With colored toy balloons?

I see him with his airy freight On sunny afternoons-- A peddler of such lovely goods!

The heart leaps to behold His ma.s.s of bubbles, red and green And blue and pink and gold.

For sure that n.o.ble peddler man Hath antic merchandise: His toys that float and swim in air Attract my eager eyes.

Perhaps he is a changeling prince Bewitched through magic moons To tempt us solemn busy folk With meaningless balloons.

Beware, oh, valiant merchantman, Tread cautious on the pave!

Lest some day come some realist, Some haggard soul and grave, A puritan efficientist Who deems thy toys a sin-- He'll stalk thee madly from behind And p.r.i.c.k them with a pin!

[Ill.u.s.tration: _The Balloon Peddler_]

LINES FOR AN ECCENTRIC'S BOOK PLATE

To use my books all friends are bid: My shelves are open for 'em; And in each one, as Grolier did, I write _Et Amicorum_.

All lovely things in truth belong To him who best employs them; The house, the picture and the song Are his who most enjoys them.

Perhaps this book holds precious lore, And you may best discern it.

If you appreciate it more Than I--why don't return it!

[Ill.u.s.tration:

_If you appreciate it more_ _Than I--why don't return it!_]