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The Jumble Book of Rhymes.
by Frank R. Heine.
Foreword
PEGASUS _is a queer old nag, and many of his would-be riders find him most unruly. We mount him and are off for a wee nip of Hippocrene. We want him to lazy along like a plough horse, while we pluck daisies, but he insists on demonstrating that, like a Hambletonian, he has all of the High School gaits. And when we pa.s.s the Queen's carriage, expecting him to step stately and look like a million dollars, the old plug stumbles and limps, and is cla.s.sed by all as a casual. So please, please blame the horse--and not the rider._
Dedication
_To the boys who have found the old War Horse a dangerous animal, have come to cropper in the Big Muss, and are now a.s.signed to bunk fatigue, we offer these rhymes. Though, they are crippled; and limp, and halt, and stumble at times--yet we trust they may, for all that, break through when General Monotony is entertaining a company of Blue Devils, and for a few moments, at least, put to rout serious and somber thoughts._
_To the casuals now enjoying hospital hospitality at Kenilworth (Biltmore) and Oteen (Azalea), this jumble of rhymes is dedicated._
_Pick it up, Buddy, it's a dud._
--_F. R. H._
THE JUMBLE BOOK OF RHYMES
[Ill.u.s.tration]
Greetings
_A New Year Greeting in which the Jumbler hopes to meet you soon._
My wish most dear for your New Year I'm quite sincere in giving; When next we meet, on Easy Street I hope that you'll be living.
P. S.--_And I hope I meet you soon._
Introspection
_The old nag_, PEGASUS, _invites the Jumbler to an introspective mood as he lopes along. It is Thanksgiving, 1917._
Am I thankful?
Let-me-see-- World, Flesh, Devil Good to me; Friends still loyal, Coin in banks-- Stop this minute!
I'll give thanks.
What of troubles Lately past?
Well, at least they Didn't last.
Not a single Scar remains, Nor remembrance Of the pains.
So, I'm thinking That from me There is due great Gobs of glee.
Though a slacker, From this day I'll be grateful-- Let us Pray!
[Ill.u.s.tration]
An Acknowledgment
(From Him to Her).
_The receipt of a gift he cannot label leads the Jumbler to recite:_
I thank you for the hickeydee, The thingamabob you sent; The trickamadoo's the very thing On which my heart was bent.
The dofunny's style and color Puts all dodads to shame; The jiggermaree's the swellest thing That ever bore that name.
Appreciation's most sincere, But I'll no longer lie-- Pray be a sport and tell me quick: What is the thing?--and why?
Pay! Pay!! Pay!!!
_In which the Jumbler notes the profusion and the pertinacity of the Pauls and the pitiful paucity of Peters._
I'm daily robbing Peter for to pay Old Mr. Paul; I swear it's hard them both to satisfy; Pauls in legions me pursue, but the Peters are so few-- I lie awake at night and wonder why.
The hope of every Peter is some day to be a Paul.
Then little Peters must be set to sprout.
Ev'ry chance of Paul for pay would forever pa.s.s away The day the tribe of Peter petered out.
