The Paths Of Rashness

Up to the sky the birdman flew
And looped some loops that were bold and new.
The people marvelled at nerve so great
And gasped or cheered as he tempted fate,
More daring each day than the day before,
Till the birdman fell and arose no more.

The bandit bragged of his daylight crimes
And said: "I'm the wonder of modern times."
Bolder and bolder his thefts became,
And the people shook when they heard his name.
He boasted: "I'm one that they'll never get."
But he jollied himself into Joliet.

Well, son, I suppose you would be admired
For the valorous habit that you've acquired
Of rushing at each little girl you meet
And hugging her tight in the public street.
But the day will come, I have not a doubt,
When you'll stagger home with an eye scratched out.

Ringgold Wilmer Lardner

Ringgold Wilmer 'Ring' Lardner was an American sports columnist and short story writer best known for his satirical takes on sports figures and the cultural mores of the Jazz Age. Born on March 6, 1885, in Niles, Michigan, he began his career as a journalist but soon gained fame for his humorous and poignant short stories. His works often featured the American slang vernacular and painted an evocative picture of early 20th-century American life. Lardner passed away on September 25, 1933.

Ringgold Wilmer Lardner

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English

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The Menace

The hat he wore was full of holes,
And his battered shoes were worn to the soles.
His shirt was a rag, held together with pins,
And his trousers patched with outs and ins.
A negro tramp, a roustabout,
Less safe than a wild beast broken out:
And like to a beast, he slouched along
The lane which the birds made sweet with song:
Where the wild rose wooed with golden eyes
The honeybees and the butterflies.
But the bird's glad song and the scent of the rose
Meant nothing to him of the love man knows.
If he heard or heeded 't was but to curse
Love had no place in his universe.
And there in the lane one met with him
A girl of ten who was fair and slim:
A farmer's daughter, whose auburn hair
Shone bright as a sunbeam moving there:
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The Wizard in the Street

[Concerning Edgar Allan Poe]


    Who now will praise the Wizard in the street
    With loyal songs, with humors grave and sweet -
    This Jingle-man, of strolling players born,
    Whom holy folk have hurried by in scorn,
    This threadbare jester, neither wise nor good,
    With melancholy bells upon his hood?

    The hurrying great ones scorn his Raven's croak,
    And well may mock his mystifying cloak
    Inscribed with runes from tongues he has not read
    To make the ignoramus turn his head.
    The artificial glitter of his eyes
    Has captured half-grown boys.    They think him wise.
    Some shallow player-folk esteem him deep,
    Soothed by his steady wand's mesmeric sweep.
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A Country Pathway.

    I come upon it suddenly, alone -
        A little pathway winding in the weeds
    That fringe the roadside; and with dreams my own,
        I wander as it leads.

    Full wistfully along the slender way,
        Through summer tan of freckled shade and shine,
    I take the path that leads me as it may -
        Its every choice is mine.

    A chipmunk, or a sudden-whirring quail,
        Is startled by my step as on I fare -
    A garter-snake across the dusty trail
        Glances and - is not there.

    Above the arching jimson-weeds flare twos
        And twos of sallow-yellow butterflies,
    Like blooms of lorn primroses blowing loose
        When autumn winds arise.

    The trail dips - dwindles - broadens then, and lifts

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The Faun

When I was but a little boy
Who hunted in the wood
To scare or mangle or destroy
A freakish elemental joy
That tasted life and found it good

I hardly heard the awful ban
That mutters round the free,
But followed where the waters ran,
And wondered when the pipe of Pan
Shook silence with its minstrelsy.

Where sun-spray glittered on my limbs
I danced, and laughed, and trilled
My happy incoherent hymns,
Sped only by the whirling whims
With which my eager heart was filled.

The wind was glad and so was I;
My soul lay open wide,
Reflecting all the starry sky;
The swallows called to me to fly;
I dreamed of how the fishes glide.

But while my errant feet were set
On mosses cool and sweet,
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Floretty's Musical Contribution

All seemed delighted, though the elders more,
Of course, than were the children. - Thus, before
Much interchange of mirthful compliment,
The story-teller said his stories "went"
(Like a bad candle) best when they went out, -
And that some sprightly music, dashed about,
Would wholly quench his "glimmer," and inspire
Far brighter lights.

    And, answering this desire,
The flutist opened, in a rapturous strain
Of rippling notes - a perfect April-rain
Of melody that drenched the senses through; -
Then - gentler - gentler - as the dusk sheds dew,
It fell, by velvety, staccatoed halts,
Swooning away in old "Von Weber's Waltz."
Then the young ladies sang "Isle of the Sea" -
In ebb and flow and wave so billowy, -
Only with quave...

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Road-Song Of The Bandar-Log

Here we go in a flung festoon,
Half-way up to the jealous moon!
Don't you envy our pranceful bands?
Don't you wish you had extra hands?
Would n't you like if your tails were, so,
Curved in the shape of a Cupid's bow?
Now you're angry, but, never mind,
Brother, thy tail hangs down behind!


Here we sit in a branchy row,
Thinking of beautiful things we know;
Dreaming of deeds that we mean to do,
All complete, in a minute or two,
Something noble and grand and good,
Won by merely wishing we could.
Now we're going to, never mind,
Brother, thy tail hangs down behind!


All the talk we ever have heard
Uttered by bat or beast or bird,
Hide or fin or scale or feather,
Jabber it quickly and all together!
Excellent! Wonderful! Once...

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