terrible, terrible accident,
And they called a meeting of parliament;
And never before that royal Court
Had come such question of grave import
As “How could you hurry a nail to grow?”
And the skill of the kingdom was called to show.
They sent for Monsieur File-’em-off;
He smoothed down the corners so ragged and rough.
They sent for Madame la Diamond-Dust,
Who lived on the fingers of upper-crust;
They sent for Professor de Chamois-Skin,
Who took her powder and rubbed it in;
They sent for the pudgy nurse Fat-on-the-Bone
To bathe her finger in eau-de-Cologne;
And they called the court surgeon, Monsieur Red-Tape,
To hear what he thought of the new nail’s shape,
Over the kingdom the telegrams flew
Which told how the finger-nail thrived and grew;
And all through the realm of Nonsense Land
They offered up prayers for the princess’s hand.
At length the glad tidings were heard with a shout
What the princess’s finger-nail had grown out:
Pointed and polished and pink and clean,
Befitting the hand of a some-day queen.
Salutes were fired all over the land
By the home-guard battery pop-gun band;
And great was the joy of my Lord High-Nose,
Who straightway ordered his wedding clothes,
And paid his tailor, Don Wait-for-aye,
Who died of amazement the self-same day.
My lord by a jury was judged insane;
For they said—and the truth of the saying was plain—
That a lord of such very high pedigree
Would never be paying his bills, you see,
Unless he was out of his head; and so
They locked him up without more ado.
And the beautiful Princess Red-as-a-Rose
Pined for her lover, my Lord High-Nose,
Till she entered a convent and took the veil—
And this is the end of my nonsense tale.

A BABY IN THE HOUSE

I knew that a baby was hid in the house;
   Though I saw no cradle and heard no cry,
But the husband went tiptoeing round like a mouse,
   And the good wife was humming a soft lullaby;
And there was a look on the face of that mother
That I knew could mean only one thing, and no other.

“The mother,” I said to myself; for I knew
   That the woman before me was certainly that,
For there lay in the corner a tiny cloth shoe,
   And I saw on the stand such a wee little hat;
And the beard of the husband said plain as could be,
“Two fat, chubby hands have been tugging at me.”

And he took from his pocket a gay picture-book,
   And a dog that would bark if you pulled on a string;
And the wife laid them up with such a pleased look;
   And I said to myself, “There is no other thing
But a babe that could bring about all this, and so
That one is in hiding here somewhere, I know.”

I stayed but a moment, and saw nothing more,
   And heard not a sound, yet I knew I was right;
What else could the shoe mean that lay on the floor,
   The book and the toy, and the faces so bright?
And what made the husband as still as a mouse?
I am sure, very sure, there’s a babe in that house.

THE FOOLISH ELM

The bold young Autumn came riding along
   One day where an elm-tree grew.
“You are fair,” he said, as she bent down her head,
   “Too fair for your robe’s dull hue.
You are far too young for a garb so old;
   Your beauty needs colour and sheen.
Oh, I would clothe you in scarlet and gold
   Befitting the grace of a queen.

“For one little kiss on your lips, sweet elm,
   For one little kiss, no more,
I would give you, I swear, a robe more fair
   Than ever a princess wore.
One little kiss on those lips, my pet,
   And lo! you shall stand, I say,
Queen of the forest, and, better yet,
   Queen of my heart alway.”

She tossed her head, but he took the kiss—
   ’Tis the way of lovers bold—
And a gorgeous dress for that sweet caress
   He gave ere the morning was old.
For a week and a day she ruled a queen
   In beauty and splendid attire;
For a week and a day she was loved, I ween,
   With the love that is born of desire.

Then bold-eyed Autumn went on his way
   In search of a tree more fair;
And mob-winds tattered her garments and scattered
   Her finery here and there.
Poor and faded and ragged and cold
   She rocked in her wild distress,
And longed for the dull green gown she had sold
   For her fickle lover’s caress.

And the days went by and Winter came,
   And his tyrannous tempests beat
On the shivering tree, whose robes of flame
   He had trampled under his feet.
I saw her reach up to the mocking skies
   Her poor arms, bare and thin;
Ah, well-a-day! it is ever the way
   With a woman who trades with sin.

ROBIN’S MISTAKE

What do you think Red Robin
Found by a mow of hay?
Why, a flask brimful of liquor,
That the mowers brought that day
To slake their thirst in the hayfield.
And Robin he shook his head:
“Now I wonder what they call it,
And how it tastes?” he said.

“I have seen the mowers drink it—
Why isn’t it good for me?
So I’ll just draw out the stopper
And get at the stuff, and see!”
But alas! for the curious Robin,
One draught, and he burned his throat
From his bill to his poor crop’s lining,
And he could not utter a note.

And his head grew light and dizzy,
And he staggered left and right,
Tipped over the flask of brandy,
And spilled it, every mite.
But after awhile he sobered,
And quietly flew away,
And he never has tasted liquor,
Or touched it, since that day.

But I heard him say to his kindred,
In the course of a friendly chat,
“These men think they are above us,
Yet they drink such stuff as that!
Oh, the poor degraded creatures!
I am glad I am only a bird!”
Then he flew up over the meadow,
And that was all I heard.

NEW YEAR RESOLVE

As the dead year is clasped by a dead December,
   So let your dead sins with your dead days lie.
A new life is yours and a new hope.  Remember
   We build our own ladders to climb to the sky.

Stand out in the sunlight of promise, forgetting
   Whatever the past held of sorrow and wrong.
We waste half our strength in a useless regretting;
   We sit by old tombs in the dark too long.

Have you missed in your aim?  Well, the mark is still shining.
   Did you faint in the race?  Well, take breath for the next.
Did the clouds drive you back?  But see yonder their lining.
   Were you tempted and fell?  Let it serve for a text.

As each year hurries by, let it join that procession
   Of skeleton shapes that march down to the past,
While you take your place in the line of progression,
   With your eyes to the heavens, your face to the blast.

I tell you the future can hold no terrors
   For any sad soul while the stars revolve,
If he will stand firm on the grave of his errors,
   And instead of regretting—resolve, resolve!

It is never too late to begin rebuilding,
   Though all into ruins your life seems hurled;
For see! how the light of the New Year is gilding
   The wan, worn face of the bruised old world.

WHAT WE WANT

All hail the dawn of a new day breaking,
When a strong-armed nation shall take away
The weary burdens from backs that are aching
With maximum labour and minimum pay;
When no man is honoured who hoards his millions;
When no man feasts on another’s toil;
And God’s poor suffering,