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Дата написания1970-01-01
Язык книгиen
Возрастное ограничение0+
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зарубежная психологиязарубежный юморюмор и сатира

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OLD GRIMES

By Albert Gorton Greene

Old Grimes is dead, that good old man We never shall see more: He used to wear a long black coat All button'd down before. His heart was open as the day, His feelings all were true; His hair was some inclined to gray— He wore it in a queue. Whene'er he heard the voice of pain, His breast with pity burn'd; The large, round head upon his cane From ivory was turn'd. Kind words he ever had for all; He knew no base design: His eyes were dark and rather small, His nose was aquiline. He lived at peace with all mankind, In friendship he was true; His coat had pocket-holes behind, His pantaloons were blue. Unharm'd, the sin which earth pollutes He pass'd securely o'er, And never wore a pair of boots For thirty years or more. But good old Grimes is now at rest, Nor fears misfortune's frown: He wore a double-breasted vest— The stripes ran up and down. He modest merit sought to find, And pay it its desert: He had no malice in his mind, No ruffles on his shirt. His neighbors he did not abuse— Was sociable and gay: He wore large buckles on his shoes, And changed them every day. His knowledge hid from public gaze, He did not bring to view, Nor made a noise town-meeting days, As many people do. His worldly goods he never threw In trust to fortune's chances, But lived (as all his brothers do) In easy circumstances. Thus undisturb'd by anxious cares, His peaceful moments ran; And everybody said he was A fine old gentleman.

MISS LEGION

By Bert Leston Taylor

She is hotfoot after Cultyure; She pursues it with a club. She breathes a heavy atmosphere Of literary flub. No literary shrine so far But she is there to kneel; And— Her favorite bunch of reading Is O. Meredith's "Lucile." Of course she's up on pictures— Passes for a connoisseur; On free days at the Institute You'll always notice her. She qualifies approval Of a Titian or Corot, But— She throws a fit of rapture When she comes to Bouguereau. And when you talk of music, Why, she's Music's devotee. She will tell you that Beethoven Always makes her wish to pray, And "dear old Bach!" his very name, She says, her ear enchants; But— Her favorite piece is Weber's "Invitation to the Dance."

HAVE YOU SEEN THE LADY?

By John Philip Sousa

"Have I told you the name of a lady? Have I told you the name of a dear? 'Twas known long ago, And ends with an O; You don't hear it often round here. Have I talked of the eyes of a lady? Have I talked of the eyes that are bright? Their color, you see, Is B-L-U-E; They're the gin in the cocktail of light. Have I sung of the hair of a lady? Have I sung of the hair of a dove? What shade do you say? B-L-A-C-K; It's the fizz in the champagne of love. Can you guess it—the name of the lady? She is sweet, she is fair, she is coy. Your guessing forego, It's J-U-N-O; She's the mint in the julep of joy."

THE FUNNY LITTLE FELLOW

By James Whitcomb Riley

'Twas a Funny Little Fellow Of the very purest type, For he had a heart as mellow As an apple over-ripe; And the brightest little twinkle When a funny thing occurred, And the lightest little tinkle Of a laugh you ever heard! His smile was like the glitter Of the sun in tropic lands, And his talk a sweeter twitter Than the swallow understands; Hear him sing—and tell a story— Snap a joke—ignite a pun,— 'Twas a capture—rapture—glory, And explosion—all in one! Though he hadn't any money— That condiment which tends To make a fellow "honey" For the palate of his friends; Sweet simples he compounded— Sovereign antidotes for sin Or taint,—a faith unbounded That his friends were genuine. He wasn't honored, may be— For his songs of praise were slim,— Yet I never knew a baby That wouldn't crow for him; I never knew a mother But urged a kindly claim Upon him as a brother, At the mention of his name. The sick have ceased their sighing, And have even found the grace Of a smile when they were dying As they looked upon his face; And I've seen his eyes of laughter Melt in tears that only ran As though, swift dancing after, Came the Funny Little Man. He laughed away the sorrow, And he laughed away the gloom We are all so prone to borrow From the darkness of the tomb; And he laughed across the ocean Of a happy life, and passed, With a laugh of glad emotion, Into Paradise at last. And I think the Angels knew him, And had gathered to await His coming, and run to him Through the widely-opened Gate— With their faces gleaming sunny For his laughter-loving sake, And thinking, "What a funny Little Angel he will make!"

MUSICAL REVIEW EXTRAORDINARY

By John Phoenix

San Diego, July 10th, 1854.

As your valuable work is not supposed to be so entirely identified with San Franciscan interests as to be careless what takes place in other portions of this great kentry, and as it is received and read in San Diego with great interest (I have loaned my copy to over four different literary gentlemen, most of whom have read some of it), I have thought it not improbable that a few critical notices of the musical performances and the drama of this place might be acceptable to you, and interest your readers. I have been, moreover, encouraged to this task by the perusal of your interesting musical and theatrical critiques on San Francisco performers and performances; as I feel convinced that if you devote so much space to them you will not allow any little feeling of rivalry between the two great cities to prevent your noticing ours, which, without the slightest feeling of prejudice, I must consider as infinitely superior. I propose this month to call your attention to the two great events in our theatrical and musical world—the appearance of the talented Miss Pelican, and the production of Tarbox's celebrated "Ode Symphonie" of "The Plains."

The critiques on the former are from the columns of the Vallecetos Sentinel, to which they were originally contributed by me, appearing on the respective dates of June 1st and June 31st.

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