VIII
SPRING AND ITS POETRY
"Well, Mr. Idiot," said Mrs. Pedagog, genially, as the Idiot entered thebreakfast-room, "what can I do for you this fine spring morning? Willyou have tea or coffee?"
"I think I'd like a cup of boiled iron, with two lumps of quinine and aspoonful of condensed nerve-milk in it," replied the Idiot, wearily."Somehow or other I have managed to mislay my spine this morning.Ethereal mildness has taken the place of my backbone."
"Those tired feelings, eh?" said Mr. Brief.
"Yeppy," replied the Idiot. "Regular thing with me. Every year alongabout the middle of April I have to fasten a poker on my back withstraps, in order to stand up straight; and as for my knees--well, Inever know where they are in the merry, merry spring-time. I'm quitesure that if I didn't wear brass caps on them my legs would bendbackward. I wonder if this neighborhood is malarious."
"Not in the slightest degree," observed the Doctor. "This is thehealthiest neighborhood in town. The trouble with you is that you have aswampy mind, and it is the miasmatic oozings of your intellect thatreduce you to the condition of physical flabbiness of which youcomplain. You might swallow the United States Steel Trust, and itwouldn't help you a bit, and ten thousand bottles of nerve-milk, or anyother tonic known to science, would be powerless to reach the seat ofyour disorder. What you need to stiffen you up is a pair of thosearmored trousers the Crusaders used to wear in the days of chivalry, tobolster up your legs, and a strait-jacket to keep your back up."
"Thank you, kindly," said the Idiot. "If you'll give me a prescription,which I can have made up at your tailor's, I'll have it filled, unlessyou'll add to my ever-increasing obligation to you by lending me yourown strait-jacket. I promise to keep it straight and to return it themoment you feel one of your fits coming on."
The Doctor's response was merely a scornful gesture, and the Idiot wenton:
"It's always seemed a very queer thing to me that this season of theyear should be so popular with everybody," he said. "To me it's themushiest of times. Mushy bones; mushy poetry; mush for breakfast, fried,stewed, and boiled. The roads are mushy; lovers thaw out and get mushierthan ever.
"In the spring the blasts of winter all are stilled in solemn hush. In the spring the young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of mush. In the spring--"
"You ought to be ashamed of yourself to trifle with so beautiful apoem," interrupted the Bibliomaniac, indignantly.
"Who's trifling with a beautiful poem?" demanded the Idiot.
"You are--'Locksley Hall'--and you know it," retorted the Bibliomaniac.
"Locksley nothing," said the Idiot. "What I was reciting is not from'Locksley Hall' at all. It's a little thing of my own that I wrote sixyears ago called 'Spring Unsprung.' It may not contain much delicatesentiment, but it's got more solid information in it of a valuable kindthan you'll find in ten 'Locksley Halls' or a dozen Etiquette Columns inthe _Lady's Away From Home Magazine_. It has saved a lot of people frompneumonia and other disorders of early spring, I am quite certain, andthe only person I ever heard criticise it unfavorably was a doctor Iknow who said it spoiled his business."
"I should admire to hear it," said the Poet. "Can't you let us have it?"
"Certainly," replied the Idiot. "It goes on like this:
"In the spring I'll take you driving, take you driving, Maudy dear, But I beg of you be careful at this season of the year. It is true the birds are singing, singing sweetly all their notes, But you'll later find them wearing canton-flannel 'round their throats. It is true the lark doth warble, 'Spring is here,' with bird-like fire, 'All is warmth and all is genial,' but I fear the lark's a liar. All is warmth for fifteen minutes, that is true; but wait awhile, And you'll find that April's weather has not ever changed its style; And beware of April's weather, it is pleasant for a spell, But, like little Johnny's future, you can't always sometimes tell. Often modest little violets, peeping up from out their beds In the balmy morn by night-time have bad colds within their heads; And the buttercup and daisy twinkling gayly on the lawn, Sing by night a different story from their carollings at dawn; And the blossoms of the morning, hailing spring with joyous frenzy, When the twilight falls upon them often droop with influenzy. So, dear Maudy, when we're driving, put your linen duster on, And your lovely Easter bonnet, if you wish to, you may don; But be careful to have with you sundry garments warm and thick: Woollen gloves, a muff, and ear-tabs, from the ice-box get the pick; There's no telling what may happen ere we've driven twenty miles, April flirts with chill December, and is full of other wiles. Bring your parasol, O Maudy--it is good for _tete-a-tetes_; At the same time you would better also bring your hockey skates. There's no telling from the noon-tide, with the sun a-shining bright, Just what kind of winter weather we'll be up against by night."
"Referring to the advice," said Mr. Brief, "that's good. I don't thinkmuch of the poetry."
"There was a lot more of it," said the Idiot, "but it escapes me at themoment. Four lines I do remember, however:
"Pin no faith to weather prophets--all their prophecies are fakes, Roulette-wheels are plain and simple to the notions April takes. Keep your children in the nursery--never mind it if they pout-- And, above all, do not let your furnace take an evening out."
"Well," said the Poet, "if you're going to the poets for advice, Ipresume your rhymes are all right. But I don't think it is the missionof the poet to teach people common-sense."
"That's the trouble with the whole tribe of poets," said the Idiot."They think they are licensed to do and say all sorts of things thatother people can't do and say. In a way I agree with you that a poemshouldn't necessarily be a treatise on etiquette or a sequence of healthhints, but it should avoid misleading its readers. Take that fellow whowrote
"'Sweet primrose time! When thou art here I go by grassy ledges Of long lane-side, and pasture mead, And moss-entangled hedges.'
That's very lovely, and, as far as it goes, it is all right. There's noharm in doing what the poet so delicately suggests, but I think thereshould have been other stanzas for the protection of the reader likethis:
"But have a care, oh, readers fair, To take your mackintoshes, And on your feet be sure to wear A pair of stanch galoshes.
"Nor should you fail when seeking out The primrose, golden yeller, To have at hand somewhere about A competent umbrella.
Thousands of people are inspired by lines like the original to gogallivanting all over the country in primrose time, to return at dewyeve with all the incipient symptoms of pneumonia. Then there's the caseof Wordsworth. He was one of the loveliest of the Nature poets, but he'seternally advising people to go out in the early spring and lie on thegrass somewhere, listening to cuckoos doing their cooking, watching thedaffodils at their daily dill, and hearing the crocus cuss; and somesentimental reader out in New Jersey thinks that if Wordsworth could dothat sort of thing, and live to be eighty years old, there's no reasonwhy he shouldn't do the same thing. What's the result? He lies on thegrass for two hours and suffers from rheumatism for the next ten years."
"Tut!" said the Poet. "I am surprised at you. You can't blame Wordsworthbecause some New Jerseyman makes a jackass of himself."
"In a way all writers should be responsible for the effect of what theywrite on their readers," said the Idiot. "When a poet of Wordsworth'seminence, directly or indirectly, advises people to go out and lie onthe grass in early spring, he owes it to his public to caution them thatin some localities it is not a good thing to do. A rhymed foot-note--
"This habit, by-the-way, is good In climes south of the Mersey; But, I would have it understood, It's risky in New Jersey--
would fulfil all the requirements of the special individual to whom Ihave referred, and would have shown that the p
oet himself was evermindful of the welfare of his readers."
The Poet was apparently unconvinced, so the Idiot continued:
"Mind you, old man, I think all this poetry is beautiful," he said; "butyou poets are too prone to confine your attention to the pleasantaspects of the season. Here, for instance, is a poet who asks
'What are the dearest treasures of spring?'
and then goes on to name the cheapest as an answer to his question. Theprimrose, the daffodil, the rosy haze that veils the forest bare, thesparkle of the myriad-dimpled sea, a kissing-match between the sunbeamsand the rain-drops, reluctant hopes, the twitter of swallows on thewing, and all that sort of thing. You'd think spring was an iridescentdream of ecstatic things; but of the tired feeling that comes over you,the spine of jelly, the wabbling knee, the chills and fever that comefrom sniffing 'the scented breath of dewy April's eve,' the doctor'sbills, and such like things are never mentioned. It isn't fair. It's allright to tell about the other things, but don't forget the drawbacks. IfI were writing that poem I'd have at least two stanzas like this:
"And other dearest treasures of spring Are daily draughts of withering, blithering squills, To cure my aching bones of darksome chills; And at the door my loved physician's ring;
"The tender sneezes of the early day; The sudden drop of Mr. Mercury; The veering winds from S. to N. by E.-- And hunting flats to move to in the May.
You see, that makes not only a more comprehensive picture, but does notmislead anybody into the belief the spring is all velvet, which it isn'tby any means."
"Oh, bosh!" cried the Poet, very much nettled, as he rose from thetable. "I suppose if you had your way you'd have all poetry submittedfirst to a censor, the way they do with plays in London."
"No, I wouldn't have a censor; he'd only increase taxes unnecessarily,"said the Idiot, folding up his napkin, and also rising to leave. "I'djust let the Board of Health pass on them; it isn't a question of moralsso much as of sanitation."