No More Learning

Wyth styrruppes, Knyghte, to boote? "
I sayde not that--I answere "Noe"--
Yt lacketh such, I woote:
Yt ys a mutton-saddel, loe!
Parte of y{e} fleecye brute.

I have a bytte--a ryghte good bytte--
As shall bee seene yn tyme.
Y{e} jawe of horse yt wyll not fytte;
Yts use ys more sublyme.
Fayre Syr, how deemest thou of yt?
Yt ys--thys bytte of rhyme.

[Illustration: "I HAVE A HORSE"]




HIAWATHA'S PHOTOGRAPHING.

[In an age of imitation, I can claim no special merit for this slight
attempt at doing what is known to be so easy. Any fairly practised writer,
with the slightest ear for rhythm, could compose, for hours together, in
the easy running metre of 'The Song of Hiawatha. ' Having, then, distinctly
stated that I challenge no attention in the following little poem to its
merely verbal jingle, I must beg the candid reader to confine his
criticism to its treatment of the subject. ]


From his shoulder Hiawatha
Took the camera of rosewood,
Made of sliding, folding rosewood;
Neatly put it all together.
In its case it lay compactly,
Folded into nearly nothing;
But he opened out the hinges,
Pushed and pulled the joints and hinges,
Till it looked all squares and oblongs,
Like a complicated figure
In the Second Book of Euclid.

[Illustration]

This he perched upon a tripod--
Crouched beneath its dusky cover--
Stretched his hand, enforcing silence--
Said "Be motionless, I beg you! "
Mystic, awful was the process.
All the family in order
Sat before him for their pictures:
Each in turn, as he was taken,
Volunteered his own suggestions,
His ingenious suggestions.
First the Governor, the Father:
He suggested velvet curtains
Looped about a massy pillar;
And the corner of a table,
Of a rosewood dining-table.
He would hold a scroll of something,
Hold it firmly in his left-hand;
He would keep his right-hand buried
(Like Napoleon) in his waistcoat;
He would contemplate the distance
With a look of pensive meaning,
As of ducks that die in tempests.
Grand, heroic was the notion:
Yet the picture failed entirely:
Failed, because he moved a little,
Moved, because he couldn't help it.
Next, his better half took courage;
She would have her picture taken.
_She_ came dressed beyond description,
Dressed in jewels and in satin
Far too gorgeous for an empress.

[Illustration: "FIRST THE GOVERNOR, THE FATHER"]

Gracefully she sat down sideways,
With a simper scarcely human,
Holding in her hand a bouquet
Rather larger than a cabbage.
All the while that she was sitting,
Still the lady chattered, chattered,
Like a monkey in the forest.
"Am I sitting still? " she asked him.
"Is my face enough in profile?
Shall I hold the bouquet higher?
Will it come into the picture? "
And the picture failed completely.
Next the Son, the Stunning-Cantab:
He suggested curves of beauty,
Curves pervading all his figure,
Which the eye might follow onward,
Till they centered in the breast-pin,
Centered in the golden breast-pin.
He had learnt it all from Ruskin
(Author of 'The Stones of Venice,'
'Seven Lamps of Architecture,'
'Modern Painters,' and some others);
And perhaps he had not fully
Understood his author's meaning;
But, whatever was the reason,
All was fruitless, as the picture
Ended in an utter failure.