An Alphabet of History Part 1

An Alphabet of History.

by Wilbur D. Nesbit.

ALEXANDER THE GREAT

[Ill.u.s.tration]

Alexander the Great was a victim of fate, And he sighed there was naught to delight him When he brandished his sword and defiantly roared And could not get a country to fight him.

All the armies he'd chased, all the lands laid to waste, And he clamored for further diversions; And our history speaks of his grip on the Greeks And his hammerlock hold on the Persians.

Though the Gordian knot, cut in two, in a spot In his palace was labeled a relic, Though Bucephalus, stuffed, gave him fame, he was huffed-- He was grouchy and grumpy, was Aleck.

And the cause of his woe, he would have you to know, Was the fact that he never was able To conduct a big sc.r.a.p that a versatile chap Of a war correspondent would cable.

'Stead of being quite glad, he would grow very sad When he told of the fellows who'd fought him, As he thought of the lack of the clicking kodak In the hands of a man to "snapshot" him.

We are told that he wept, and in dolefulness crept Through his palace--the reason is hinted: There were not at that time magazines for a dime, And his articles could not be printed.

Though it may seem unkind, ere his life we've outlined, We must say in some ways he was hateful; And in truth, we have heard he went back on his word, And was not Alexander the Grateful.

BRUTUS

[Ill.u.s.tration]

Back in the time of Rome sublime, There lived great Julius Caesar Who wore the crown with haughty frown And was a frosty geezer.

Three times, they say, upon the way Called Lupercal, they fetched it For him to wear, but then and there He said they should have stretched it.

And we are told that Jule was cold And frigid as Alaska, Ambitious, too,--that would not do For Ca.s.sius and Casca.

They told their friends: "It all depends On having things to suit us.

We think that Jule is much too cool; Let us conspire with Brutus."

They furthermore let out this roar: "Shall Caesar further scoff us?

Next week, they say, he'll have his way About the Rome postoffice."

With dirk and sword in togas stored-- You know those times they wore 'em-- They made a muss of Ju-li-us One morning in the Forum.

With "Et tu, Brute?" J. C. grew mute.

(Some claim it's "Et tu, Bru-te"; We mention it both whole and split As is our bounden duty.)

Mark Antony arose, and he Talked some,--we shall not quote it; We've understood 'twas not as good As when Bill Shakespeare wrote it.

Then Brutus skipped lest he be nipped-- And since his dissolution He's been accused and much abused In schools of elocution.

CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS

[Ill.u.s.tration]

When Christopher Columbus stood the egg upon its end, He solved a weighty problem that no one could comprehend-- Perhaps it was the puzzle whose solution clearly showed The psychologic motives of the hen that crossed the road.

Perhaps cold storage minstrels never might have heard of this If it hadn't been for Chris.

Columbus packed his little grip and got upon the train And went to see that n.o.ble man, King Ferdinand of Spain.

Result: He found America--oh, do not idly nod, For if it hadn't been for this we couldn't go abroad!

Just think of all the travel and the voyages we'd miss If it hadn't been for Chris.

Columbus found America and won a lot of fame-- n.o.body ever thought to ask him how he knew its name; n.o.body ever booked him for some lectures to declare In eloquent a.s.sertions how he knew the land was there.

Today we might be savages, unknowing modern bliss, If it hadn't been for Chris.

He landed near Havana, and he said: "It seems to me That sometime in the future little Cuby shall be free."

His vision was prophetic--far adown the future's track He saw the dauntless Hobson and the sinking Merrimac.

We might have still been tyros in the ethics of the kiss If it hadn't been for Chris.

Today there are big cities and big buildings named for him, And yet he was so poor that once he thought he'd have to swim To find this wondrous country, for he was so badly broke; But Isabella n.o.bly put her watch and ring in soak.

Who knows but Isabella never might have thought of this If it hadn't been for Chris?

DIOGENES

[Ill.u.s.tration]

Diogenes lived in a tub His fellows a.n.a.lyzing; These words were carved upon his club: "First Cla.s.s Philosophizing."

If any question came his way Involving people's morals, The things that he felt moved to say Were sure to start some quarrels.

In fact, his tub became a booth In which he dealt in wholesale truth.

This world was but a fleeting show-- He knew a lot about it; When he was told a thing was so He then began to doubt it.

He seldom left his narrow home-- Not even on a Sunday; The only time that he would roam Abroad was on a Monday.

He had to roam then, anyway, For that, you know, is was.h.i.+ng day.

Society, with all its sham, Gave him a paroxysm; He always spoke in epigram And thought in aphorism.

One day he took his lantern down And polished it and lit it-- But first he frowned a peevish frown And growled: "The wick don't fit it."

And then, with pessimistic scan, He sought to find an honest man.

Diogenes has long been dead; His search was not well heeded, For no historian has said If ever he succeeded.

But there's this thought for you and me: It would not be quite pleasant If on that quest the sage should be With his fierce light, at present.