Java An Introduction to Problem

Solving and Programming 7th Edition

Walter Savith
Visit to download the full and correct content document:
https://ebookmeta.com/product/java-an-introduction-to-problem-solving-and-program
ming-7th-edition-walter-savith/
More products digital (pdf, epub, mobi) instant
download maybe you interests ...

Introduction to Programming with Java: A Problem

Solving Approach 3rd Edition John Dean

https://ebookmeta.com/product/introduction-to-programming-with-
java-a-problem-solving-approach-3rd-edition-john-dean/

Programming and Problem Solving with C 7th Edition Nell

Dale

https://ebookmeta.com/product/programming-and-problem-solving-
with-c-7th-edition-nell-dale/

A Practical Introduction To Programming And Problem

Solving Solutions Manual Stormy Attaway

https://ebookmeta.com/product/a-practical-introduction-to-
programming-and-problem-solving-solutions-manual-stormy-attaway/

Matlab A Practical Introduction to Programming and

Problem Solving 6th Edition Stormy Attaway

https://ebookmeta.com/product/matlab-a-practical-introduction-to-
programming-and-problem-solving-6th-edition-stormy-attaway/
Problem Solving with C 10th Edition Walter J Savitch

https://ebookmeta.com/product/problem-solving-with-c-10th-
edition-walter-j-savitch/

Java Java Java Object Oriented Problem Solving 3rd

Edition Ralph Morelli Ralph Walde

https://ebookmeta.com/product/java-java-java-object-oriented-
problem-solving-3rd-edition-ralph-morelli-ralph-walde/

Python Programming: Using Problem Solving Approach

Reema Thareja

https://ebookmeta.com/product/python-programming-using-problem-
solving-approach-reema-thareja/

Learning Java An Introduction to Real World Programming

with Java 5th Edition Marc Loy Patrick Niemeyer Daniel
Leuck

https://ebookmeta.com/product/learning-java-an-introduction-to-
real-world-programming-with-java-5th-edition-marc-loy-patrick-
niemeyer-daniel-leuck/

Animated Problem Solving: An Introduction to Program

Design Using Video Game Development (Texts in Computer
Science) Marco T. Morazán

https://ebookmeta.com/product/animated-problem-solving-an-
introduction-to-program-design-using-video-game-development-
texts-in-computer-science-marco-t-morazan/
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
An’ if his wife she’d ask the crank
If he wouldn’t kinder try to yank
Hisself outdoors an’ git some wood
To make her kitchen fire good,
So she c’d bake her beans an’ pies,
He’d say, “I’ve gotter flosserfize.”

An’ then he’d set an’ flosserfize

About the natur an’ the size
Of angels’ wings, an’ think, and gawp,
An’ wonder how they made ’em flop.
He’d calkerlate how long a skid
’Twould take to move the sun, he did;
An’ if the skid wuz strong an’ prime,
It couldn’t be moved to supper-time.
An’ w’en his wife ’d ask the lout
If he wouldn’t kinder waltz about
An’ take a rag an’ shoo the flies,
He’d say, “I’ve gotter flosserfize.”

An’ then he’d set an’ flosserfize

’Bout schemes for fencing in the skies,
Then lettin’ out the lots to rent
So’s he could make an honest cent.
An’ if he’d find it pooty tough
To borry cash fer fencin’ stuff.
An’ if ’twere best to take his wealth
An’ go to Europe for his health,
Or save his cash till he’d enough
To buy some more of fencin’ stuff.
Then, if his wife she’d ask the gump
If he wouldn’t kinder try to hump
Hisself to t’other side the door
So she c’d come an’ sweep the floor,
He’d look at her with mournful eyes,
An’ say, “I’ve gotter flosserfize.”

An’ so he’d set an’ flosserfize

’Bout w’at it wuz held up the skies,
An’ how God made this earthly ball
Jest simply out er nawthin’ ’tall,
An’ ’bout the natur, shape, an’ form
Of nawthin’ that He made it from.
Then, if his wife sh’d ask the freak
If he wouldn’t kinder try to sneak
Out to the barn an’ find some aigs,
He’d never move, nor lift his laigs,
He’d never stir, nor try to rise,
But say, “I’ve gotter flosserfize.”

An’ so he’d set an’ flosserfize

About the earth an’ sea an’ skies,
An’ scratch his head an’ ask the cause
Of w’at there wuz before time wuz,
An’ w’at the universe’d do
Bimeby w’en time had all got through;
An’ jest how fur we’d have to climb
If we sh’d travel out er time,
An’ if we’d need, w’en we got there
To keep our watches in repair.
Then, if his wife she’d ask the gawk
If he wouldn’t kinder try to walk
To where she had the table spread
An’ kinder git his stomach fed,
He’d leap for that ’ar kitchen door,
An’ say, “W’y didn’t you speak afore?”
An’ w’en he’d got his supper et,
He’d set, an’ set, an’ set, an’ set,
An’ fold his arms an’ shet his eyes,
An’ set, an’ set, an’ flosserfize.

Finley Peter Dunne created the immortal Mr. Dooley about the
time of the Spanish War.
The Irish dialect is perfect, the humor most droll and the wit quiet
and clean-cut.
Among the best of the chapters is the one that burlesques the
proceedings that took place at a celebrated murder trial of the day.

ON EXPERT TESTIMONY

“Annything new?” said Mr. Hennessy, who had been waiting

patiently for Mr. Dooley to put down his newspaper.
 “I’ve been r-readin’ th’ tistimony iv th’ Lootgert case,” said Mr.
Dooley.
“What d’ye think iv it?”
“I think so,” said Mr. Dooley.
“Think what?”
“How do I know?” said Mr. Dooley. “How do I know what I think?
I’m no combination iv chemist, doctor, osteologist, polisman, an’
sausage-maker, that I can give ye an opinion right off th’ bat. A man
needs to be all iv thim things to detarmine annything about a
murdher trile in these days. This shows how intilligent our methods
is, as Hogan says. A large German man is charged with puttin’ his
wife away into a breakfas’-dish, an’ he says he didn’t do it. Th’
question thin is, Did or did not Alphonse Lootgert stick Mrs. L. into a
vat, an’ rayjooce her to a quick lunch? Am I right?”
“Ye ar-re,” said Mr. Hennessy.
“That’s simple enough. What th’ Coort ought to’ve done was to
call him up, an’ say: ‘Lootgert, where’s ye’er good woman?’ If
Lootgert cudden’t tell, he ought to be hanged on gin’ral principles; f’r
a man must keep his wife around th’ house, an’ whin she isn’t there it
shows he’s a poor provider. But, if Lootgert says, ‘I don’t know where
me wife is,’ the Coort shud say:’ Go out an’ find her. If ye can’t
projooce her in a week, I’ll fix ye.’ An’ let that be th’ end iv it.
“But what do they do? They get Lootgert into coort an’ stand him
up befure a gang iv young rayporthers an’ th’ likes iv thim to make
pitchers iv him. Thin they summon a jury composed iv poor tired,
sleepy expressmen an’ tailors an’ clerks. Thin they call in a profissor
from a college. ‘Professor,’ says th’ lawyer f’r the State, ‘I put it to ye
if a wooden vat three hundherd an’ sixty feet long, twenty-eight feet
deep, an’ sivinty-five feet wide, an’ if three hundherd pounds iv
caustic soda boiled, an’ if the leg iv a guinea-pig, an’ ye said
yestherdah about bi-carbonate iv soda, an’ if it washes up an’
washes over, an’ th’ slimy, slippery stuff, an’ if a false tooth or a lock
iv hair or a jawbone or a goluf ball across th’ cellar eleven feet nine
inches—that is, two inches this way an’ five gallons that?’ ‘I agree
with ye intirely,’ says th’ profissor. I made lab’ratory experiments in
an’ ir’n basin, with bichloride iv gool, which I will call soup-stock, an’
coal-tar, which I will call ir’n filings. I mixed th’ two over a hot fire, an’
left in a cool place to harden. I thin packed it in ice, which I will call
glue, an’ rock-salt, which I will call fried eggs, an’ obtained a dark
queer solution that is a cure f’r freckles, which I will call antimony or
doughnuts or annything I blamed please.’
“‘But,’ says th’ lawyer f’r th’ State, ‘measurin’ th’ vat with gas—an’
I lave it to ye whether this is not th’ on’y fair test—an’ supposin’ that
two feet acrost is akel to tin feet sideways, an’ supposin’ that a thick
green an’ hard substance, an’ I daresay it wud; an’ supposin’ you
may, takin’ into account th’ measuremints—twelve be eight—th’ vat
bein’ wound with twine six inches fr’m th’ handle an’ a rub iv th’
green, thin ar-re not human teeth often found in counthry sausage?’
‘In th’ winter,’ says th’ profissor. ‘But th’ sisymoid bone is sometimes
seen in th’ fut, sometimes worn as a watch-charm. I took two
sisymoid bones, which I will call poker dice, an’ shook thim together
in a cylinder, which I will call Fido, poored in a can iv milk, which I will
call gum arabic, took two pounds iv rough-on-rats, which I rayfuse to
call; but th’ raysult is th’ same.’ Question be th’ Coort: ‘Different?’
Answer: ‘Yis.’ Th’ Coort: ‘Th’ same.’ Be Misther McEwen: ‘Whose
bones?’ Answer: ‘Yis.’ Be Misther Vincent: ‘Will ye go to th’ divvle?’
Answer: ‘It dissolves th’ hair.’
“Now what I want to know is where th’ jury gets off. What has that
collection iv pure-minded pathrites to larn fr’m this here polite
discussion, where no wan is so crool as to ask what anny wan else
means? Thank th’ Lord, whin th’ case is all over, the jury’ll pitch th’
tistimony out iv th’ window, an’ consider three questions: ‘Did
Lootgert look as though he’d kill his wife? Did his wife look as though
she ought so be kilt? Isn’t it time we wint to supper?’ An’, howiver
they answer, they’ll be right, an’ it’ll make little diff’rence wan way or
th’ other. Th’ German vote is too large an’ ignorant annyhow.”
 George Ade, in the Biographical Dictionaries, is classed almost
exclusively as a playwright, but to those who know and love his
Fables in Slang,—and who does not?—he will always be a humorist.
His slang is all that slang should be, witty, trenchant, picturesque
and used but once. His own rule for slang stipulates that it shall be
impromptu, spontaneous and never repeated.
From his opera The Sultan of Sulu, we quote one song.
THE COCKTAIL
The cocktail is a pleasant drink,
It’s mild and harmless—I don’t think!
When you have one, you call for two—
And then you don’t care what you do.

Last night I hoisted twenty-three

Of those arrangements into me;
My bosom heaved, I swelled with pride,
I was pickled, primed and ossified!

But R-E-M-O-R-S-E—
The water wagon is the place for me!
It is no time for mirth and laughter,
The cold, dark dawn of the Morning After!

THE FABLE OF THE CADDY WHO HURT HIS HEAD WHILE THINKING

One day a Caddy sat in the Long Grass near the Ninth Hole and
wondered if he had a Soul. His number was 27, and he almost had
forgotten his Real Name.
As he sat and Meditated, two Players passed him. They were
going the Long Round, and the Frenzy was upon them.
They followed the Gutta-Percha Balls with the intent swiftness of
trained Bird-Dogs, and each talked feverishly of Brassy Lies, and
getting past the Bunker, and Lofting to the Green, and Slicing into
the Bramble—each telling his own Game to the Ambient Air, and
ignoring what the other Fellow had to say.
As they did the St. Andrews Full Swing for eighty Yards apiece
and then Followed Through with the usual Explanations of how it
Happened, the Caddy looked at them and Reflected that they were
much inferior to his Father.
His Father was too Serious a Man to get out in Mardi Gras
Clothes and hammer a Ball from one Red flag to another.
His Father worked in a Lumber-Yard.
He was an Earnest Citizen, who seldom Smiled, and he knew all
about the Silver Question and how J. Pierpont Morgan done up a
Free People on the Bond Issue.
The Caddy wondered why it was that his Father, a really Great
Man, had to shove Lumber all day and could seldom get one Dollar
to rub against another, while these superficial Johnnies who played
Golf all the Time had Money to Throw at the Birds. The more he
Thought the more his Head ached.
Moral.—Don’t try to Account for Anything.

Will Carleton wrote many long narrative ballads, of a homely type.

His Betsey and I Are Out, and Over the Hills to the Poorhouse, in
their day were known to every household.
A shorter work is:
ELIPHALET CHAPIN’S WEDDING
’Twas when the leaves of Autumn were by tempest-fingers picked,
Eliphalet Chapin started to become a benedict;
With an ancient two-ox waggon to bring back his new-found goods,
He hawed and gee’d and floundered through some twenty miles o’ woods;
With prematrimonial ardour he his hornèd steeds did press,
But Eliphalet’s wedding journey didn’t bristle with success.
Oh no,
Woe, woe!
With candour to digress,
Eliphalet’s wedding journey didn’t tremble with success.

He had not carried five miles his mouth-disputed face,

When his wedding garments parted in some inconvenient place;
He’d have given both his oxen to a wife that now was dead,
For her company two minutes with a needle and a thread.
But he pinned them up, with twinges of occasional distress,
Feeling that his wedding wouldn’t be a carnival of dress:
“Haw, Buck!
Gee, Bright!
Derned pretty mess!”
No; Eliphalet was not strictly a spectacular success.

He had not gone a ten-mile when a wheel demurely broke,

A disunited family of felloe, hub, and spoke;
It joined, with flattering prospects, the Society of Wrecks;
And he had to cut a sapling, and insert it ’neath the “ex.”
So he ploughed the hills and valleys with that Doric wheel and tire,
Feeling that his wedding journey was not all he could desire.
“Gee, Bright!
G’long, Buck!”
He shouted, hoarse with ire!
No; Eliphalet’s wedding journey none in candour could admire!

He had not gone fifteen miles with extended face forlorn,

When Night lay down upon him hard, and kept him there till morn;
And when the daylight chuckled at the gloom within his mind,
One ox was “Strayed or Stolen,” and the other hard to find.
So yoking Buck as usual, he assumed the part of Bright
(Constituting a menagerie diverting to the sight);
With “Haw, Buck!
Gee, Buck!
Sh’n’t get there till night!”
No; Eliphalet’s wedding journey was not one intense delight.

Now, when he drove his equipage up to his sweetheart’s door,

The wedding guests had tired and gone, just half-an-hour before;
The preacher had from sickness an unprofitable call,
And had sent a voice proclaiming that he couldn’t come at all;
The parents had been prejudiced by some one, more or less,
And the sire the bridegroom greeted with a different word from “bless.”
“Blank your head,
You blank!” he said;
“We’ll break this off, I guess!”
No; Eliphalet’s wedding was not an unqualified success.

Now, when the bride saw him arrive, she shook her crimson locks,
And vowed to goodness gracious she would never wed an ox;
And with a vim deserving rather better social luck,
She eloped that day by daylight with a swarthy Indian “buck,”
With the presents in the pockets of her woollen wedding-dress;
And “Things ain’t mostly with me,” quoth Eliphalet, “I confess,”
No—no;
As things go,
No fair mind ’twould impress,
That Eliphalet Chapin’s wedding was an unalloyed success.

Dr. William H. Drummond is best known humorously by his apt

rendition of the French-Canadian dialect.
THE WRECK OF THE “JULIE PLANTE.”
A Legend of Lake St. Peter.

On wan dark night on Lac Saint Pierre,

De win’ she blow, blow, blow,
An’ de crew of de wood scow “Julie Plante”
Got scar’t, an’ run below—
For de win’ she blow lak hurricain,
Bimeby she blow some more,
An’ de scow buss h’up on Lac Saint Pierre
Wan h’arpent from de shore.

De captinne walk h’on de fronte deck,

An’ walk de hin’ deck too—
He call de crew from h’up de ’ole
He call de cook h’also.
De crew she’s name was Rosie,
She’s come from Montreal,
Was chambre maid h’on lombaire barge,
H’on de Grande La Chine Canal.

De win’ she’s blow from nor’-eass-wess—

De sout’ win’ she’s blow too,
W’en Rosie cry, “Mon cher captinne,
Mon cher, w’at I shall do?”
Den de captinne trow de big h’ankerre,
But steel de scow she dreef,
De crew he can’t pass on de shore,
Becos he loss hees skeef.

De night was dark lak’ wan black cat,

De wave run ’igh an’ fas’,
W’en de captinne tak’ de poor Rosie
An’ tie her to de mas’.
Den he h’also tak’ de life preserve,
An’ jomp h’off on de lak’,
An’ say, “Good-bye, ma Rosie dear,
I go drown for your sak’.”

Nex’ morning very h’early

Bout haf-pas’ two—t’ree—four—
De captinne—scow—an’ de poor Rosie
Was corpses on de shore.
For de win’ she blow lak’ hurricain,
Bimeby she blow some more,
An’ de scow bus’ h’up on Lac Saint Pierre,
Wan h’arpent from de shore.

Moral
Now h’all good wood scow sailor man
Tak’ warning by dat storm,
An’ go an’ marry some nice French girl
An’ leev on one beeg farm.

De win’ can blow lak hurricain

An’ s’pose she blow some more,
You can’t get drown on Lac St. Pierre
So long you stay on shore.

Ben King is responsible for at least two humorous jingles of wide

popularity.
THE PESSIMIST
Nothing to do but work;
Nothing to eat but food;
Nothing to wear but clothes,
To keep one from going nude.

Nothing to breathe but air;

Quick as a flash ’tis gone;
Nowhere to fall but off;
Nowhere to stand but on.

Nothing to comb but hair;

 Nowhere to sleep but in bed;
Nothing to weep but tears;
Nothing to bury but dead.

Nothing to sing but songs,

Ah, well, alas! alack!
Nowhere to go but out;
Nowhere to come but back.

Nothing to see but sights;

Nothing to quench but thirst;
Nothing to have but what we’ve got;
Thus thro’ life we are cursed.

Nothing to strike but a gait;

Everything moves that goes.
Nothing at all but common sense
Can ever withstand these woes.

IF I SHOULD DIE TO-NIGHT

If I should die to-night,
And you should come to my cold corpse and say,
Weeping and heartsick o’er my lifeless clay—
If I should die to-night,
And you should come in deepest grief and wo—
And say, “Here’s that ten dollars that I owe,”
I might arise in my large white cravat,
And say, “What’s that?”

If I should die to-night,

And you should come to my cold corpse and kneel,
Clasping my bier to show the grief you feel,
I say, if I should die to-night,
And you should come to me, and there and then
Just even hint ’bout payin’ me that ten,
I might arise the while,
But I’d drop dead again.

A humorous jingle that achieved immediate vogue is Casey at the

Bat. The authorship has been questioned but consensus of research
seems to ascribe it to Ernest Lawrence Thayer.
CASEY AT THE BAT
It looked extremely rocky for the Mudville nine that day;
The score stood four to six, with just an inning left to play;
And so, when Cooney died at first, and Burrows did the same,
A pallor wreathed the features of the patrons of the game.

A straggling few got up to go, leaving there the rest,

With that hope which springs eternal within the human breast;
For they thought if only Casey could get one whack, at that
They’d put up even money, with Casey at the bat.

But Flynn preceded Casey, and so likewise did Blake,

And the former was a pudding and the latter was a fake;
So on that stricken multitude a death-like silence sat,
For there seemed but little chance of Casey’s getting to the bat.

But Flynn let drive a single to the wonderment of all,

And the much-despised Blakie tore the cover off the ball;
And when the dust had lifted, and they saw what had occurred,
There was Blakie safe on second, and Flynn a-hugging third.

Then from the gladdened multitude went up a joyous yell,

It bounded from the mountain-top, and rattled in the dell;
It struck upon the hillside, and rebounded on the flat;
For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.

There was ease in Casey’s manner as he stepped into his place,

There was pride in Casey’s bearing, and a smile on Casey’s face;
And when responding to the cheers he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt ’twas Casey at the bat.

Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt,
Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt;
Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
Defiance glanced in Casey’s eye, a sneer curled Casey’s lip.

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there;
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped.
“That ain’t my style,” said Casey. “Strike one,” the umpire said.

From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore;
“Kill him! kill the umpire!” shouted some one on the stand.
And it’s likely they’d have killed him had not Casey raised his hand.
With a smile of Christian charity great Casey’s visage shone,
He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew,
But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, “Strike two.”

“Fraud!” cried the maddened thousands, and the echo answered, “Fraud!”
But the scornful look from Casey, and the audience was awed;
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Casey wouldn’t let that ball go by again.

The sneer is gone from Casey’s lips, his teeth are clenched in hate,
He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate;
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey’s blow.

Oh! somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright,

The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light;
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout,
But there is no joy in Mudville—mighty Casey has struck out.

John Kendrick Bangs, one time Editor of Puck, of lamented

memory, wrote tomes of humorous verse. As a pastime in tricky
rhyming we quote:
MONA LISA
Mona Lisa, Mona Lisa,
Have you gone? Great Julius Cæsar!
Who’s the Chap so bold and pinchey
Thus to swipe the great da Vinci,
Taking France’s first Chef d’œuvre
Squarely from old Mr. Louvre,
Easy as some pocket-picker
Would remove our handkerchicker
As we ride in careless folly
On some gaily bounding trolley?

Mona Lisa, Mona Lisa,

Who’s your Captor? Doubtless he’s a
Crafty sort of treasure-seeker—
Ne’er a Turpin e’er was sleeker—
But, alas, if he can win you
Easily as I could chin you,
What is safe in all the nations
From his dreadful depredations?
He’s the style of Chap, I’m thinkin’
Who will drive us all to drinkin’!

Mona Lisa, Mona Lisa,

Next he’ll swipe the Tower of Pisa,
Pulling it from out its socket
For to hide it in his pocket;
Or perhaps he’ll up and steal, O,
Madame Venus, late of Milo;
Or maybe while on the grab he
Will annex Westminster Abbey,
And elope with that distinguished
Heap of Ashes long extinguished.

Maybe too, O Mona Lisa,

He will come across the seas a—
Searching for the style of treasure
That we have in richest measure.
Sunset Cox’s brazen statue,
Have a care lest he shall catch you
Or maybe he’ll set his eye on
Hammerstein’s, or the Flatiron,
Or some bit of White Wash done
By those lads at Washington—
Truly he’s a crafty geezer,
Is your Captor, Mona Lisa!

Thomas L. Masson, humorous writer, and for many years editor of

Life, has doubtless written more humor and books of humor than any
one in the country.
THE KISS
“What other men have dared, I dare,”
He said. “I’m daring, too:
And tho’ they told me to beware,
One kiss I’ll take from you.

“Did I say one? Forgive me, dear;

That was a grave mistake,
For when I’ve taken one, I fear,
One hundred more I’ll take.
“’Tis sweet one kiss from you to win,
But to stop there? Oh, no!
One kiss is only to begin;
There is no end, you know.”

The maiden rose from where she sat

And gently raised her head:
“No man has ever talked like that—
You may begin,” she said.

DESOLATION
Somewhat back from the village street
Stands the old fashioned country seat.
Across its antique portico
Tall poplar trees their shadows throw.
And there throughout the livelong day,
Jemima plays the pi-a-na.
Do, re, mi,
Mi, re, do.

In the front parlor there it stands,

And there Jemima plies her hands,
While her papa, beneath his cloak,
Mutters and groans: “This is no joke!”
And swears to himself and sighs, alas!
With sorrowful voice to all who pass.
Do, re, mi,
Mi, re, do.

Through days of death and days of birth

She plays as if she owned the earth
Through every swift vicissitude
She drums as if it did her good,
And still she sits from morn till night
And plunks away with main and might
Do, re, mi,
Mi, re, do.

In that mansion used to be

Free-hearted hospitality;
But that was many years before
Jemima dallied with the score.
When she began her daily plunk,
Into their graves the neighbors sunk.
Do, re, mi,
Mi, re, do.

To other worlds they’ve long since fled,

All thankful that they’re safely dead.
They stood the racket while alive
Until Jemima rose at five.
And then they laid their burdens down,
And one and all they skipped the town.
Do, re, mi,
Mi, re, do.

Stephen Crane, a strange and often misunderstood genius, never

waxed humorous in a broad sense. But the incisive, satirical wit of
his lines can seldom be found bettered.
A man said to the universe,
“Sir, I exist!”
“However,” replied the universe,
“The fact has not created in me
A sense of obligation.”

Upon the road of my life,

Passed me many fair creatures,
Clothed all in white, and radiant;
To one, finally, I made speech:
“Who art thou?”
But she, like the others,
Kept cowled her face,
And answered in haste, anxiously,
“I am Good Deed, forsooth;
You have often seen me.”

“Not uncowled,” I made reply.

And with rash and strong hand,
Though she resisted,
I drew away the veil,
And gazed at the features of Vanity.
She, shamefaced, went on;
And after I had mused a time,
I said of myself, “Fool!”
“Think as I think,” said a man,
“Or you are abominably wicked;
You are a toad.”
And after I had thought of it,
I said, “I will, then, be a toad.”

Charles Battell Loomis was a favorably known writer of humorous

jingles, and he wielded a facile pen in parody.
JACK AND JILL
(As Austin Dobson might have written it)
Their pail they must fill
In a crystalline springlet,
Brave Jack and fair Jill.
Their pail they must fill
At the top of the hill,
Then she gives him a ringlet.
Their pail they must fill
In a crystalline springlet.

They stumbled and fell,

And poor Jack broke his forehead,
Oh, how he did yell!
They stumbled and fell,
And went down pell-mell—
By Jove! it was horrid.
They stumbled and fell,
And poor Jack broke his forehead.

(As Swinburne might have written it)

The shudd’ring sheet of rain athwart the trees!
The crashing kiss of lightning on the seas!
The moaning of the night wind on the wold,
That erstwhile was a gentle, murm’ring breeze!

On such a night as this went Jill and Jack

With strong and sturdy strides through dampness black
To find the hill’s high top and water cold,
Then toiling through the town to bear it back.

The water drawn, they rest awhile. Sweet sips

Of nectar then for Jack from Jill’s red lips,
 And then with arms entwined they homeward go;
Till mid the mad mud’s moistened mush Jack slips.

Sweet Heaven, draw a veil on this sad plight,

His crazèd cries and cranium cracked; the fright
Of gentle Jill, her wretchedness and wo!
Kind Phœbus, drive thy steeds and end this night!

(As Walt Whitman might have written it)

I celebrate the personality of Jack!
I love his dirty hands, his tangled hair, his locomotion blundering.
Each wart upon his hands I sing,
Pæans I chant to his hulking shoulder blades.
Also Jill!
Her I celebrate.
I, Walt, of unbridled thought and tongue,
Whoop her up!
What’s the matter with Jill?
Oh, she’s all right!
Who’s all right?
Jill.

Her golden hair, her sun-struck face, her hard and reddened hands;
So, too, her feet, hefty, shambling.
I see them in the evening, when the sun empurples the horizon, and through the
darkening forest aisles are heard the sounds of myriad creatures of the night.
I see them climb the steep ascent in quest of water for their mother.
Oh, speaking of her, I could celebrate the old lady if I had time.
She is simply immense!

But Jack and Jill are walking up the hill.

(I didn’t mean that rhyme.)
I must watch them.
I love to watch their walk,
And wonder as I watch;
He, stoop-shouldered, clumsy, hide-bound,
Yet lusty,
Bearing his share of the 1-lb bucket as though it were a paperweight.
She, erect, standing, her head uplifting,
Holding, but bearing not the bucket.
They have reached the spring.
They have filled the bucket.
Have you heard the “Old Oaken Bucket”?
I will sing it:—

Of what countless patches is the bed-quilt of life composed!

Here is a piece of lace. A babe is born.
The father is happy, the mother is happy.
Next black crêpe. A beldame “shuffles off this mortal coil.”
Now brocaded satin with orange blossoms,
Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March,” an old shoe missile,
A broken carriage window, the bride in the Bellevue sleeping.
Here’s a large piece of black cloth!
“Have you any last words to say?”
“No.”
“Sheriff, do your work!”
Thus it is: from “grave to gay, from lively to severe.”

I mourn the downfall of my Jack and Jill.

I see them descending, obstacles not heeding.
I see them pitching headlong, the water from the pail outpouring, a noise from
leathern lungs out-belching.
The shadows of the night descend on Jack, recumbent, bellowing, his pate with
gore besmeared.
I love his cowardice, because it is an attribute, just like
Job’s patience or Solomon’s wisdom, and I love attributes.
Whoop!!!

Guy Wetmore Carryl, son of Charles E. Carryl, possessed a

lovable and whimsical nature and wielded an exceedingly clever
pen, both in verse and prose. His untimely death robbed us of one of
our most delightful young humorists.
HOW A GIRL WAS TOO RECKLESS OF GRAMMAR
Matilda Maud Mackenzie frankly hadn’t any chin,
Her hands were rough, her feet she turned invariably in;
Her general form was German,
By which I mean that you
Her waist could not determine
Within a foot or two.
And not only did she stammer,
But she used the kind of grammar
That is called, for sake of euphony, askew.

From what I say about her, don’t imagine I desire

A prejudice against this worthy creature to inspire.
She was willing, she was active,
She was sober, she was kind,
But she never looked attractive
And she hadn’t any mind.
I knew her more than slightly,
And I treated her politely
When I met her, but of course I wasn’t blind!

Matilda Maud Mackenzie had a habit that was droll,

She spent her morning seated on a rock or on a knoll,
And threw with much composure
A smallish rubber ball
At an inoffensive osier
By a little waterfall;
But Matilda’s way of throwing
Was like other people’s mowing,
And she never hit the willow-tree at all!

One day as Miss Mackenzie with uncommon ardour tried

To hit the mark, the missile flew exceptionally wide.
And, before her eyes astounded,
On a fallen maple’s trunk
Ricochetted and rebounded
In the rivulet, and sunk!
Matilda, greatly frightened,
In her grammar unenlightened,
Remarked, “Well now I ast yer, who’d ’er thunk?”

But what a marvel followed! From the pool at once there rose
A frog, the sphere of rubber balanced deftly on his nose.
He beheld her fright and frenzy
And, her panic to dispel,
On his knee by Miss Mackenzie
He obsequiously fell.
With quite as much decorum
As a speaker in a forum
He started in his history to tell.

“Fair maid,” he said, “I beg you do not hesitate or wince,

If you’ll promise that you’ll wed me, I’ll at once become a prince;
For a fairy, old and vicious,
An enchantment round me spun!”
 Then he looked up, unsuspicious,
And he saw what he had won,
And in terms of sad reproach, he
Made some comments, sotto voce,
(Which the publishers have bidden me to shun!)

Matilda Maud Mackenzie said, as if she meant to scold;

“I never! Why, you forward thing! Now, ain’t you awful bold!”
Just a glance he paused to give her,
And his head was seen to clutch,
Then he darted to the river,
And he dived to beat the Dutch!
While the wrathful maiden panted
“I don’t think he was enchanted!”
(And he really didn’t look it overmuch!)

THE MORAL
In one’s language one conservative should be;
Speech is silver and it never should be free!

Edwin Arlington Robinson, among the greatest of our later poets,

has a fine wit, nowhere better shown than in:
MINIVER CHEEVY
Miniver Cheevy, child of scorn,
Grew lean while he assailed the seasons;
He wept that he was ever born,
And he had reasons.

Miniver loved the days of old

When swords were bright and steeds were prancing;
The vision of a warrior bold
Would set him dancing.

Miniver sighed for what was not,

And dreamed and rested from his labors;
He dreamed of Thebes and Camelot
And Priam’s neighbors.

Miniver mourned the ripe renown

That made so many a name so fragrant;
He mourned Romance, now on the town,
And Art, a vagrant.