CANTO IV.

CANTO VI.

Dyscomfyture.

As one who strives a hill to climb,
Who never climbed before:
Who finds it, in a little time,
Grow every moment less sublime,
And votes the thing a bore:

Yet, having once begun to try,
Dares not desert his quest,
But, climbing, ever keeps his eye
On one small hut against the sky,
Wherein he hopes to rest:

Who climbs till nerve and force are spent,
With many a puff and pant:
Who still, as rises the ascent,
In language grows more violent,
Although in breath more scant:

 

Who, climbing, gains at length the place
That crowns the upward track;
And, entering with unsteady pace,
Receives a buffet in the face
That lands him on his back:

And feels himself, like one in sleep,
Glide swiftly down again,
A helpless weight, from steep to steep,
Till, with a headlong giddy sweep,
He drops upon the plain—

So I, that had resolved to bring
Conviction to a ghost,
And found it quite a different thing
From any human arguing,
Yet dared not quit my post

 

But, keeping still the end in view
To which I hoped to come,
I strove to prove the matter true
By putting everything I knew
Into an axiom:

Commencing every single phrase
With ‘therefore’ or ‘because,’
I blindly reeled, a hundred ways,
About the syllogistic maze,
Unconscious where I was.

Quoth he “That’s regular clap-trap:
Don’t bluster any more.
Now do be cool and take a nap!
Such a ridiculous old chap
Was never seen before!

“You’re like a man I used to meet,
Who got one day so furious
In arguing, the simple heat
Scorched both his slippers off his feet!”
I said “That’s very curious!”

 

“SCORCHED BOTH HIS SLIPPERS OFF HIS FEET”

 

“Well, it is curious, I agree,
And sounds perhaps like fibs:
But still it’s true as true can be—
As sure as your name’s Tibbs,” said he.
I said “My name’s not Tibbs.”

“Not Tibbs!” he cried—his tone became
A shade or two less hearty—
“Why, no,” said I. “My proper name
Is Tibbets—” “Tibbets?” “Aye, the same.”
“Why, then YOU’RE NOT THE PARTY!”

With that he struck the board a blow
That shivered half the glasses.
“Why couldn’t you have told me so
Three quarters of an hour ago,
You prince of all the asses?

“To walk four miles through mud and rain,
To spend the night in smoking,
And then to find that it’s in vain—
And I’ve to do it all again—
It’s really too provoking!

 

 

“Don’t talk!” he cried, as I began
To mutter some excuse.
“Who can have patience with a man
That’s got no more discretion than
An idiotic goose?

“To keep me waiting here, instead
Of telling me at once
That this was not the house!” he said.
“There, that’ll do—be off to bed!
Don’t gape like that, you dunce!”

“It’s very fine to throw the blame
On me in such a fashion!
Why didn’t you enquire my name
The very minute that you came?”
I answered in a passion.

“Of course it worries you a bit
To come so far on foot—
But how was I to blame for it?”
“Well, well!” said he. “I must admit
That isn’t badly put.

“And certainly you’ve given me
The best of wine and victual—
Excuse my violence,” said he,
“But accidents like this, you see,
They put one out a little.

“’Twas my fault after all, I find—
Shake hands, old Turnip-top!”
The name was hardly to my mind,
But, as no doubt he meant it kind,
I let the matter drop.

“Good-night, old Turnip-top, good-night!
When I am gone, perhaps
They’ll send you some inferior Sprite,
Who’ll keep you in a constant fright
And spoil your soundest naps.

“Tell him you’ll stand no sort of trick;
Then, if he leers and chuckles,
You just be handy with a stick
(Mind that it’s pretty hard and thick)
And rap him on the knuckles!

“Then carelessly remark ‘Old coon!
Perhaps you’re not aware
That, if you don’t behave, you’ll soon
Be chuckling to another tune—
And so you’d best take care!’

“That’s the right way to cure a Sprite
Of such-like goings-on—
But gracious me! It’s getting light!
Good-night, old Turnip-top, good-night!”
A nod, and he was gone.

 

 

CANTO VII.

Sad Souvenaunce.

 

 

“What’s this?” I pondered. “Have I slept?
Or can I have been drinking?”
But soon a gentler feeling crept
Upon me, and I sat and wept
An hour or so, like winking.

“No need for Bones to hurry so!”
I sobbed. “In fact, I doubt
If it was worth his while to go—
And who is Tibbs, I’d like to know,
To make such work about?

“If Tibbs is anything like me,
It’s possible,” I said,
“He won’t be over-pleased to be
Dropped in upon at half-past three,
After he’s snug in bed.

“And if Bones plagues him anyhow—
Squeaking and all the rest of it,
As he was doing here just now—
I prophesy there’ll be a row,
And Tibbs will have the best of it!”

Then, as my tears could never bring
The friendly Phantom back,
It seemed to me the proper thing
To mix another glass, and sing
The following Coronach.

 

“AND TIBBS WILL HAVE THE BEST OF IT”

 

‘And art thou gone, beloved Ghost?
Best of Familiars!
Nay then, farewell, my duckling roast,
Farewell, farewell, my tea and toast,
My meerschaum and cigars!

‘The hues of life are dull and gray,
The sweets of life insipid,
When thou, my charmer, art away—
Old Brick, or rather, let me say,
Old Parallelepiped!’

Instead of singing Verse the Third,
I ceased—abruptly, rather:
But, after such a splendid word,
I felt that it would be absurd
To try it any farther.

So with a yawn I went my way
To seek the welcome downy,
And slept, and dreamed till break of day
Of Poltergeist and Fetch and Fay
And Leprechaun and Brownie!

For years I’ve not been visited
By any kind of Sprite;
Yet still they echo in my head,
Those parting words, so kindly said,
“Old Turnip-top, good-night!”

 

 

 

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