After A. A. Proctor
The Lost Voice
SEATED at Church in the winter
I was frozen in every limb;
And the village choir shrieked wildly
Over a noisy hymn.
I do not know what they were singing,
For while I was watching them
Our Curate began his sermon
With the sound of a slight “Ahem!”
It frightened the female portion,
Like the storm which succeeds a calm,
Both maidens and matrons heard it
With a touch of inane alarm.
It told them of pain and sorrow,
Cold, cough, and neuralgic strife,
Bronchitis, and influenza
All aimed at our Curate’s life.
It linked all perplex’d diseases
Into one precious frame;
They trembled with rage if a sceptic
Attempted to ask its name.
They have wrapped him in mustard plasters,
Stuffed him with food and wine,
They have fondled, caressed, and nursed him,
With sympathy divine.
It may be that other Curates
Will preach in that Church to them,
Will there be every time, Good Heavens!
Such a fuss for a slight—Ahem!
A. H. S.
The Lost Ape
SEATED one day on an organ,
A monkey was ill at ease,
When his fingers wandered idly,
In search of the busy fleas.
I knew not what he was slaying,
Or what he was dreaming then,
But a sound burst forth from that organ,
Not at all like a grand Amen.
It came through the evening twilight
Like the close of the feline psalm,
But the melody raised by their voices
Compared to this noise was balm!
It was worse than Salvation’s Sorrow,
With their band of drum and fife,
And cut, like an evening “Echo,”
The Tit-Bits out of “Life.”
I upset my table and tea things,
And left not one perfect piece;
I gazed at the wreck in silence,
Not loth, but unable to speak!
Then I sought him, alas! all vainly,
The source of that terrible whine,
With his cracked and tuneless organ,
And its melodies undivine.
Of course there was no policeman
To move him away,—and men
Who grind organs smile demurely
At your curses, and smile again.
It may be that I could choke him—
Could kill him—but organ men,
If you kill a dozen to-day,
To-morrow will come again!
J. W. G. W.
The Lost Word
SEATED one day at the typewriter,
I was weary of a’s and e’s,
And my fingers wandered wildly
Over the consonant keys.
I know not what I was writing,
With that thing so like a pen;
But I struck one word astounding—
Unknown to the speech of men.
It flooded the sense of my verses,
Like the break of a tinker’s dam,
And I felt as one feels when the printer
Of your “infinite calm” makes clam.
It mixed up s’s and x’s
Like an alphabet coming to strife.
It seemed the discordant echo
Of a row between husband and wife.
It brought a perplexed meaning
Into my perfect piece,
And set the machinery creaking
As though it were scant of grease.
I have tried, but I try it vainly,
The one last word to divine
Which came from the keys of my typewriter
And so would pass as mine.
It may be some other typewriter
Will produce that word again,
It may be, but only for others—
I shall write henceforth with a pen.
C. H. Webb.