 A Pessimistic View by John Kendrick's Bangs Read for LibriVox.org by April 6-0-9-0, California, United States of America. A little bit of Thackery. A little bit of Scott. A modicum of Dickens just to tangle up the plot. A paraphrase of Marriot. Another form Dumas. You ask me for a novel, sir, and I say there you are. The pen is greater than the sword. Of that there is no doubt. The pen for me whener I wish an enemy to rout. A pen, a pad, and say a pint, of ink with which to scrawl. To put a foe to flight is all, that's needed, truly all, but when it comes to making up a novel in these days you do not need a pen at all, to win the writer's bays, a pair of sharpened scissors, and a wealth of pure white page. We'll do it if you have at hand a pot of buccalage. So give to me the scissors' keen, and give to me the glue, and I will fix a novel up that's sure to startle you. The good ideas have all been worked, but while we've gum and paste there shall be books and books and books to please the public taste. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. THE MASTER'S PEN A CONFESSION By John Kendrick's Bangs Read for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson In my collection, famed of Curios, I have, as every bookman knows, a pen that Thackeray once used. To be amused I thought I'd take that pen in hand, and see what came of it, what grand inspired lines twid right. One Sunday night I dipped it in the ink, and tried to think. What shall I indict? And do you know that pen went fairly mad? A dreadful time with it I had. It spluttered, battered, scratched, and blotted so. I had to give it up, you know. It really wouldn't work for me. And so I put it down. But last night, after tea, I took it up again, and equally invane the hour's bed. I went to bed, and in my dreams the pen came up to me and said, Here is the list of asses who have tried to take up pens the master lay to side. Look thou! I looked and lo! Perhaps you've guessed, my name like Abu Benz led all the rest. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Bookworm Ballads, a Literary Feast by John Kendrick Spengs Read for LibriVox.org by April 6090, California, United States of America. My bookworm gave a dinner to a number of his set. I was not there. I say it to my very great regret. For they dined well, I fancy, if the menu that I saw, was followed as implicitly as one, obeys the laws. To elope him he observed to me. With quatrains on the half. They go down easy, then, for soup. It really made me laugh. The poems of old Johnny Gay, his words were rather rough. They'll do quite well for, after all, soups thin and sloppy stuff. For fish, old Isaac Walton, and to serve as an entree, I think some fixed up morsel say, from James or from Dade. The roast will be Charles Kingsley, there's a deal of beef in him. For sherbet, T.B. Aldrich, is just suited to my whim. For game will have Bacchio, he's quite the proper one. He certainly is gamey, and a trifle underdone. And for the salad Addison, so fresh and crisp as he, with just a touch of poke to give, a tang to him, you see. And then for cheese, Max Nordow, for I think you'll find right there. Some things as strong and mushy as the best of Camembert. And for dessert, let Thackeray, and oh, Kayayam be brought. The witch completes a dinner of most wondrous richness fraught. For olives and for almonds, we can take the jokes of punch. They're good enough for us, I think, to casually munch. And through it all, we'll quoth the wines, that flow forever clear. For Mavons vineyards in the heart of Will, of work worth to share. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. I'm in literary culture, and I've opened up a shop, where I'd like ye gents and ladies if you're passing by to stop. Come and see my rich assortment of fine literary seed, that I'm selling to the writers a full many a modern screed. I bacilli for tin volumes for a dollar in a bag. Not a single germ among them, that's been ever known to drag. Not a single germ among them, if you see they're planted right. But we'll grow into a novel, that they'll say is out of sight. I have motifs by the thousand, motifs sad and motifs gay. You can buy them by the dozen, or I'll serve them every day. I will serve them in the morning, as the milkman serves his wares. I will serve them by the postman, or I'll leave them on your stairs. When you get down to your table with your head of vacuum, you can say unto the help-meat, as that quart of ideas come that we ordered served here daily from that plot-man down the street, and you'll find that I've been early in my engagement to complete. Should you want a book of poems that will bring you into fame, let me send a sample packet that will guarantee the same. Ten Seeds of Fought from Byron, Herrick, Chaucer, Tennyson. Plant them deep, and keep them watered, and you'll find the deed is done. I've a hundred comic packets that would make a twain of Job. I have Seeds of Tales Narcotic, Tales of Surgeons and the Probe. I've a most superb assortment on the very cheapest terms, done up carefully in tinfoil, of my A1 Trilby germs. So perchance, if you're ambitious in a literary line, be as dull as air you can be. You will surely cut a shine, if you'll only take advantage of this opportunity, when you're passing by to stop in for a little chat with me. You may ask me, in conclusion, why I do not seek myself all the laurel and the glory of these seeds I sell for pelf. I will tell you, though, in confidence, I can't deny it rash. I'm a trifle long on laurels, and a little short of cash. This recording is in the public domain. The Author's Boomerang by John Kendrick Bangs. Read for LibriVox.org by Oogie's Rectile. He frowns with reason. He has always said, the public has no knowledge of true art. The book of worth these days would not be read. Tis trash not truth that goes upon the mart. And then was published his beloved work. Some 26 editions it has had, and he his own conclusion cannot shirk. With such success as this it must be bad. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. An Egotistical Biographer by John Kendrick Bangs. Read for LibriVox.org by Oogie's Rectile. I've read your story of your friend's fine life. But really gentle sir, I failed to see. Why you've named it blank, and Jane his wife, when you had better called it simply me. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. No Copyright Needed by John Kendrick Bangs. Read for LibriVox.org by Oogie's Rectile. I've pinned a score of essays bright in Addison's best style. I've taken many a lofty flight, the muses too beguile. Of novels I have written few, I think no more than ten. With history I've had to do, like several other men. And still, to my intense regret, through all my woe and wheel, I've never pinned a volume yet a foreigner would steal. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Ingredients of Greatness by John Kendrick Bangs. Read for LibriVox.org by Oogie's Rectile. The style of man I'd like to be, if I could have my way, would be a sort of potpourri of Poe and Thackery. Of Horace, Addison and Lamb. Of Keats in Washington. Of Rome and Blessed Omar Kayem. In R.L. Stevenson. Of Kipling and the Bard of Thrums. And Boatapart the Great. If I were these, I'd snap my thumbs derisively at fate. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A Common Favorite by John Kendrick Bangs. Read for LibriVox.org by Laurie Wilson. Charles Lamb is good, and so is Thackery, and so is Jane Austen in her pretty way. Charles Dickens, too, has pleased me quite a lot, as also have both Stevenson and Scott. I like Dumas and Balzac, and I think Lord Byron quite a dab at spreading ink. But on the whole at home across the sea, the author I best like is Mr. Me. A first of Elliot filled by soul with joy. Meredith Deluxe held no alloy, and when I found Pendenis in the parts a throb of gladness stirred my heart of hearts. Originally pictured set of Avon's Bard upon my liking bounded pretty hard, but none brought out that cloying sense of glee that came from the first book by Mr. Me. And so I beg you to join me in the toast to him that I confessed I love the most. He does not always do his level best, but no one lives who can survive that test. His work is queer, and some folks call it bad, and some avert his but a passing fad. But I don't care, the facts remain that he has won my admiration, dear old me. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. There Pins by John Kendrick Banks, read for LibriVox.org by Laurie Wilson. The poet pins his odes and sonnets spruce with quills plucked from the ordinary goose, while critics write their sharp incisive lines with quills snatched from the fretful porcupines. In the poem, this recording is in the public domain. An Unsolved Problem by John Kendrick Banks, read for LibriVox.org by Laurie Wilson. If Bacon wrote those grand inspiring lines at which alternately man weeps and laughs, who was it pinned those chirographic vines we know these times as Shakespeare's autographs? End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. The Bibliophil's Threat by John Kendrick Banks, read for LibriVox.org by Laurie Wilson. If someone does not speedily indict a volume that is worthy of my shelf, I'll have to buy materials and write a novel and some poetry myself. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. My Treasures by John Kendrick Banks, read for LibriVox.org by April 690, California, United States of America. My library overflows with treasures rare of Dickens first, a full unbroken set, and in a little nooklet off the stair, the whole edition of my novelette. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Poets Fad by John Kendrick Banks, read for LibriVox.org by Geryl Diminenko. He writes pet prose on principle. Even though it does not sell, he thinks the plan original, so many folks write well. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. The Poet Undone by John Kendrick Banks, read for LibriVox.org by Geryl Diminenko. He was a poet born but unkind fate, once doomed him for his verses to be paid. Whereon he left the poet's born estate and wrote like one who'd happened to be made. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Awaining Muse by John Kendrick Banks, read for LibriVox.org by Geryl Diminenko. Why out thou sad poeticus, said I? So blue was he I feared he would not speak. Alas, I've lost my grip was his reply. I read but 40 poems, sir, this week. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Modesty by John Kendrick Banks, read for LibriVox.org by Geryl Diminenko. What hundred books are best, thank you, I said. Addressing one devoted to the pen. He thought a moment and then he raised his head. I hardly know, I've written only 10. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. My Lord the Book by John Kendrick Banks, read for LibriVox.org by Sarah Brown. A book is an aristocrat, Tis Pampard lives in state, stands on a shelf with not where at to worry, lovely fate. Enjoys the best of company and often eyed his so, like much in aristocracy, its title makes it go. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. The Bibliomiser by John Kendrick Banks, read for LibriVox.org by Sarah Brown. He does not read at all, yet he doth hoard. Rich books in exile on his shelves they're stored. And many a volume, sweet and good and true, fails in the work that it was made to do. Why, Ian, the dust they've caught since he began, would quite suffice to make a decent man. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. The Collector by John Kendrick Banks, read for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson. I got atoned today and I was glad to strike it, because no other man can ever get one like it. Tis poor and badly print. It's many's Greek. But what of that? Tis mine and it's unique. So ba to others, men and brothers, ba and likewise poo. I've got the best of you. Go sick and die at leak repine. The book you wanted, gad, it's mine. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. A Reader by John Kendrick Banks, read for LibriVox.org by Alan Lawley. Door dead to him is a due debt. Demar he caused a mass. But Brithy do not you forget. He's not a toad and ass. Because the books that he doth buy, that on his shelf do stand, hold not one page his eagle eye, hath not completely scanned. And while this man's orthopy may not be what it should, he knows what books contain and he can quote him pretty good. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Fate by John Kendrick Banks, read for LibriVox.org by Alan Lawley. I feel that I am quite as smart as Edward Bulwer Leighton Bart. I'm also every bit as bright as Walter Scott, the Scottish Knight. And in my own peculiar way, I'm just as good as Thackeray. But woe is me that it should be, they got here years ahead of me. And all the tales I would unfold by them already have been told. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. A pleasing thought by John Kendrick Banks, read for LibriVox.org by BL Newman. They speak most truly, who do say, we have no writing folk today. Like those whose names in days gone by, upon the scroll of fame stood high. And when I think of Smollett's tales, of Waspish Pope's ill-natured rails, of Fielding Dull, of Stern Too Free, of Swift's uncurbed indecency, of Dr. Johnson's bludgeon wit, I must confess I'm glad of it. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Books versus Books by Bibliomaniac by John Kendrick Banks, read for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson. A volumes just received on vellum print. The book is worth the vellum, no more it isn't. But as I search my head for thoughts, I find one fact embedded firmly in my mind. That's this in short. While it no doubt may be most pleasant for an author small to see, a fine addition of his work put out, no man who's sane can ever really doubt that products of his brain and pen can live alone for that which they may happily give. And though on vellum stiff the work appears, it cannot live throughout the after-years, unless it has within its leaves some hint of something further than the style of print and paper. Give me Omar on mere waste. I'll choose it rather than some bookish taste, expended on a flimsy, whimsy tale, but out to catch a whimsy, flimsy sail. I choose my Omar print on grocerswraps before the vellum books of bookish chaps. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Confession by John, read for LibriVox.org by Chad Horner from Ballyclair, in Coney under Northern Ireland, situated in the north-east of the island of Ireland. My epic verse, my pet production, which I deemed sufficient to advance me to the highest peak of difficult. Pornassus, goal of which I've dreamed for many a weary year, came back to me last week. The editor I cursed that he should stand between my dear ambition and my scarcely dearer self, whose unappreciation forced to blush on scene, my one dear book, to gather dust upon my shelf. That night, in sleep, an angel fair came to my side, and in her hand she held a scroll, in lines of flame, the name of him, I'd cursed, frid. And when I cried, what portent this? The rare celestial dame replied, read here, O ingrate base, the name of him that is cursed, the very man of all men who should be the first I love, a lasting gratitude to know, since he still leaves the path for Nassian open under thee. A path which thou with halting rhyme was to ill-composed, against thy self has thou to keep forever closed, read thou thy lines again, ah, bitter was the cup, I read, withdrew the curse, untoward the epica. And the form this recording is in the public domain. Addition Deluxe by John Kendrick's Bank Read for LibriVox.org by Tasneem. The Addition Deluxe, how very close to the truth these bookish men can be, when in their catalogs they pen, the words descriptive of the wares they hold, to tempt the book man with his purse of gold. For instance, they have dried in, splendid set, but some poor white with part with his wealth to get. Tis richly bound, its edges gilded, but hard fate, as dried in deserves, uncut. For who these days would think to buy the screed of dull old drusty dried in just to read? In faith, if his additions had been kept amongst the rarities, he'd never have crept. And then those pompous, overwhelming tones you find so oft in overwhelming homes. No substance on a watt man's surface placed in polished leather and in tooling encased. The gilded edges dazzling to the eye, and flaunting all their charms so want only. These bookmen, when they catalog their books, call them in truth, Addition Deluxe. That's all they have, most of them, just plain shape, with less pure wine than any unripe grape. But tomes that travel on their looks, indeed, are only good for those who do not read. And, like most people clad in garments grand, seem rather heavy for the average hand. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain, recording by Thysneem. Nappellini's Error by John Kendrick Bangs. Read for LibriVox.org by Caroline Kiley. Pietro Nappellini di Vendetta Pasquarelli deserted Balmi, Italy, the land that loved him well, and sailed for soft America of wealth the very fount to earn sufficient dollars there to make himself account. Alas for poor Pietro, he arrived in wintertime and marveled at the poet who observed in tripping rhyme how this new world was genial and a sunny sort of climb. No chance had he for music that's developed by a crank. No chance had he at sculpture nor a penny in the bank. The peanut trade was languid and for him too full of risk. He thought the work on railways for his blood was rather brisk. The sole profession left him to assuage his stomach's woe. It struck him in meandering the city to and fro was surely that of shoveling away the rich man's snow. And then Pietro Nappellini di Vendetta Pasquarelli sought out a city thoroughfare, the swellest of the swell. He stole a shovel and he found a broom he thought would do, then rang the massive front door bell of Stewie Vicente de Puyo. I want to shove it a snow, he said, when there at last appeared. Fitzjohn Augustus Higgins, who in Birmingham, was reared. A man by all in low estate much hated and much feared. Go away, said Fitz with gesture bold. You can't do nothing here. You're blooming ugly furriner, he added, with a sneer. I thinks as how you daegos is the cost of this air land, with worthy citizens like me most starved on every end. I vows he fied me way at all. I'd order out a troupe, and send the bloomin' lotterier, ed over eels in soup. Get out, your nasty grubbrier! How acuate the stoop! Then when the snow had melted off, Fitzjohn Augustus went, and humbly asked his master for two dollars that he'd spent in paying Nappellini di Vendetta Pasquarelli. While Napp went back to Italy, the land that loved him well, convinced that when he sailed that time his country to forsake, he must have got aboard the ship when he was half awake, and got to London, not New York, by some most odd mistake. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. My Color, by John Kendrick Bangs. Read for LibriVox.org by The Story Girl. My best loved color? Well, I think I like a soft and tender dewy green for grass. Sometimes a pink, my fancy, too, will strike, in lobster puree or a soturn glass. Blue is a color, too, I greatly love. It's sort of satisfying to my eyes. Tis their own color, and I'm quite fond of this hue also for soft Italian skies. For blushes give me red, nor hesitate to pile it on. I like it good and strong. Upon the cheeks of her I call my fate, the loveliest of all the lovely throng. On golden yellow aft my fancy dwells. Tis almost godlike, as it sparkles through the effervescent fizz, and wondrous spells it casts on me when coined in dollars, too. Hence, friend, it is I cannot specify what hues particular my joys and hands. I like them all. Their popularity, at special times, depends on circumstance and of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Contemplate in Nature by John Kendrick Bangs. Read for leapivox.org by Alan Lawley. I would not change my joys for those of emperors and kings. What has my gentle friend the rose told them? If ought, do you suppose? The rose that tells me things. What secrets have they had with trees? What rumps with grassy spears? What know they of the mysteries? Of butterflies and honeybees who whisper in my ears? What says the sun beam unto them? What tells her brooklets told? Is there within their diadem a single rival to the gem? The dewy daisies hold? What sympathy have they with birds whose songs are songs of mine? Do they err here as though in words to aslisp the message of the herds? Of gazing, lowing kind? Ah, no, give me no lofty throne. But just want nature yields. Let me but wander on alone, if need be, so that all my own are woods and dales and fields. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Heroic Gano by John Kendrick Bangs. Read for LibriVox.org by pseudonymous Nord. The Heroic Gano. When the order was given to withdraw from battle for breakfast, one of the gun captains, a privileged character, begged Commodore Dewey to let them keep on fighting until we've wiped him out. War anecdote in daily paper. At the Battle of Manila in the Un-Pacific Sea stood a gunner with his mad up just as far as it could be. Stood a gunner brave and ready for the hated enemy. Near the Isles of Philopena raged the battle all the morning and the plucky Spanish sailors by the shot and shell were torn. And the flag that floated over them to oblivion was born. Every cannon belched projectiles, every cannon breathed forth hell. Every cannon moulded the foreman from the deck into the swell. When amid the din of battle rang the silvery breakfast bell. Stop your shooting, come to breakfast! cried the gallant Commodore. After eating we will let them have a rousing old encore. Store your lanyards or my jackies, let the cannon cease to roar. Then up spake the fighting gunner. Dewey, don't I beg of you. What's the use of drinking coffee till we've put this scrimmage through? If there's anyone who's hungry, won't the Spanish omelet do? For a good would not have done it, when through mobile bay he sped. Why then Dewey should we breakfast till we've plunked them full of lead. Let our motto be as his was. Damn the fish balls, go ahead. And if, Boy, this recording is in the public domain. The Pathetic Tale of the Carry Boy by John Kendricks Banks. Read for LibriVox.org by pseudonymousNorb. The Pathetic Tale of the Carry Boy. Come here, said I, oh, Carry Boy, and tell me how it happens. You cling so fast unto these links, not like the other chaps, who like to dally on the streets and play the game of craps. Is it that you enjoy the work of carrying a bag, while others speed the festive ball old valley hill in Prague and do your spirits never seem to falter or to flag? I've watched you many a day, my lad, and puzzled over the fact that you are so attentive to the game, your every act, not indicate perfection. There's been nothing you have lacked. And I would know just why it is that you so perfect seem. In all my golfing days, you've been the very brightest clean. Or am I lying home in bed, and are you just a dream? Oh, sir, said he, I can't hear because I love my pal. I cling unto these glans and links because I love my ma. In short, I love my parents, sir, and these my reasons are. It was but a year ago, good sir, when first this ancient sport came in the portals of our home, home of the sweetest sort. When golf came through the windows, sir, my home went through the port. My father first he took it up and many a very night. My mother with us children waited up by candlelight in hopes that he'd return and free us from our lonely plight. Then mother, she went after him, alas, that it should be and shortly learned the game herself. She plays it famously, which left us children orphans, I and all my brothers three. They play it here, they play it there, they play it everywhere, no matter what the weather, be it wet or be it fair. And for the cares of golf, they've dropped their every other care. And so it is that we poor lads are forced to leave our home and join the ranks of caddy boys who all the fields do roam in search of little golf balls in the sunlight and glow. For some day we are hoping that our eyes again will see a most beloved parents on some putting green or tea, a sight to gladden all our hearts if it should ever be. And lo, I looked upon that boy, his face was sweet and sad. And to my heart they came a twinge, for in that little lad I recognized my eldest son, I was that wicked dad. And now together we are out on links at home and far. He and his three small brothers with their shamed, repentant path, a looking here and looking there to find their dear mama. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Gareless Wisdom by John Kendrick Bangs, read for LibriVox.org by April 6-0-9-0, California, United States of America. I know a wondrous man, my neighbor, he. He's ripe in years and great in understanding. He's versed in art and in philosophy. He shows a mind that's verily commanding. He'll stand before a painting and without a single instance thought or hesitation, he'll tell the painter's name nor any doubt, is there he gives the proper information. The rocks, the hills and valleys hold from him. No secret that is past a man's revealing. He knows why some are stout and others slim. He comprehends all kinds of human feeling. The records of the stars he knows and each romance that round about the heavens lingers. At dinner time he opts to delights to preach, on which was made the first or forks or fingers. Indeed all things he knows, or high or low, the things that fly on wing or go a-walking, except one thing he never seems to know and that's when he should stop his endless talking. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Perjury of a Rejected Lover by John Kendrick Spengs. Read for LibreVox.org by Rachel Marie. When I was twenty-one I swore, if I should ever wed, the maiden that I should adore, should have a classic head, should have a form quite dune-o-esque, a manor full of grace, a wealth of hair-suit picturesque, above a peaked face. But I, a lass, impergid, for I've wed a jumpy lass, I much despised in days of yore, of quite the plainest class, because each maiden of my dream, whose favour I did seek, was so opposed unto my scheme, I married Jane in peak. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Made of Culture by John Kendrick Spengs. Read for LibreVox.org by Rachel Marie. Made of Culture, air we part, since we've talked of letters, art, science, faith, and hypnotism, and most every other reason. When you wrote a while ago, ZOEMO SAS AGAPO, let me tell you this, my dear, though your lettering was clear, though the ancient sages Greek would be glad to hear you speak, they would be replete with woe at your maw, SAS AGAPO. For, do you maiden most astute, you have placed the mark acute, or omega, take your specs, see, it should be circumflex. Still I love you even though you have written AGAPO. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Not Perfect by John Kendrick Spengs. Read for LibreVox.org by Rachel Marie. Her eyes are blue, a lovely hue, for eyes her cheeks are pink, and for the cheek, twist me and you, that colour's right, I think. Her fingers taper prettily, her teeth are white as pearls, her hands seem softer far to me than any other girls, her figures trim it is petite, I like them just that way, and truly maiden half so sweet, you do not find every day, and yet alas she's not my choice, this creature of my rhyme, because her soft and rich-toned voice is going all the time. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A City Dwellers Wish by John Kendrick Spengs. Read for LibreVox.org by April 6090, California, United States of America. I love the leaf of the old oak tree, I love the gum of the spruce, I love the bark of the hickory, and I love the maple's juice. On the walnuts' grain I fondly dote, on the cherries' fruit I dine, and I love to lie in a narrow boat, and send the odor of pine. Ah me, how I wish some power grand, would invent some single tree, with all these points well developed, and would send that tree to me! I'd plant it deep in the jardin air, that stands in this flat of mine, I'd give it the sweetest tenderest care, and water its roots with wine. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Where Are They? by John Kendrick Spengs. Read for LibreVox.org by this name. Where Are They? What has become of the cast of coats, that covered world Shakespeare's back? What has become of the old rowboats, of kid and his pirate pack? Where are the scarfs that Lord Byron wore? Where are poor Shelly's scarfs? What has become of that wondrous tour of Queen Elizabeth's roughs? Where are the slippers of Ferdinand? Where are Mark Anthony's clothes? Where are the gloves from Antoinette's hand? Where are Oliver Goldsmith's hoes? I did not search for the ships of Tyre. The grave of Wittington's cat would sooner set my spirit on fire, or even be your Brunel's hat. And when I reflect that there are spots in the world that I can't find, where lie these same identical lots and many of the same kinds, I'm tempted to give a store of gold to him that will bring to me a glass, earth's mysteries to unfold, and show me where these things be. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Recording by Thysneem. Memories by John Kendricks Banks. Read for LibriVox.org by Thysneem. Memories. John Maiden once a jester did adore, who early died and in the churchyard sleeps. Once in a while she reads his best jokes o'er, and sits her down in madly, sorely weeps. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Recording by Thysneem. A Sad State by John Kendrick Banks. Read for LibriVox.org by Austin Heath. I know a man in real estate who's pride of self's sublime. He'd like to be a poet great, but can't afford the time. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Ad Astra Perotium by John Kendrick Banks. Read for LibriVox.org by Austin Heath. As I read over old John Dryden's verse, the rhymes of men like William Blake and Gay, the stuff that helped fill Edmund Waller's purse, and that which placed on Marvel's brow the bay, it off appeared to me that in those times the muses quaffed not sparkling wine, but grog, and that to grow immortal through one's rhymes was about as hard as falling off a log. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Consolation by John Kendrick Banks. Read for LibriVox.org by Austin Heath. Shakespeare was not accounted great when Good Queen Bess ruled England's estate. So why should I today repine because the laurel is not mine? Perhaps in 2093 folks will begin to talk of me, and somewhere statues may be built of me and bronze, perhaps in guilt, and sages full of quips and quirks will wonder if I wrote my works. So why should I repine today because my brow wears not the bay? End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Satisfaction on Reading Not One Disatisfied by Walt Whitman. By John Kendrick Banks. Read for LibriVox.org by Austin Heath. God spare the day when I am satisfied. Enough is truly likened to a feast that leaves a man satiate. The sluggishness of fullness comes apace, the dullness of a mind that knows all things. The lack of every sweet desire, no new sensation for the soul. To want no more? What vile estate is that? What holds the morrow for a soul that's satisfied? What holds the future for the mind content? Is aspiration worthless? Is much abused ambition then so vile? What is the essence of the joy of living? Must yesterday, tomorrow, and today all be the same with nothing to be hoped for? Is not a soul a thirst a joyous thing? Where lies content to him whose eye doth rest on higher things? What satiation can compare to hope? Yet who among the satisfied hath need of hope? What can he hope for if he is satisfied? Tis but conceit and nothing more to pray of satisfaction. God spare the day when I am satisfied. I do not want the earth. Yet nothing less will leave me quite content. And once tis mine, I'm very sure you'll find me roaming off after the universe. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. From budding time, through blossoming, to withering and rest. Yet compensation hast thou, I, for all thy little woes? For was it not thy happy lot to live and die a rose? End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Worst of Enemies by John Kendrick Spengs Read for LibriVox.org by Rachel Marie I do not fear an enemy who all his days have hated me. I do not bother or a foe whose name and face I do not know. I mind me not the small attack of him who bites behind my back, but heaven help me to the end, against that one who was once my friend. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Jokes of the Night by John Kendrick Spengs Read for LibriVox.org by Rachel Marie Blessed jokes of my dreams your praises I'd sing. No mirth can compare to the mirth that you bring. I've read London Punch from beginning to end on all comic papers much money I spend. But not that is in them can ever seem bright beside the rich jokes that I dream of at night. How I laugh at those jests of my brain when at rest the gladdest and merriest, sweetest and best, and how, when I wake in the morning and try, to call them to mind, oh, how bashful, how shy, they seem how they scatter and hide out of sight, these jokes of my dreamings, those jests of the night. Take the one that came to me today just at dawn, the cable car turns and remarks to the prawn, the crowbar is seasick, but then what of that, as long as the camel won't wear a silk hat. I laughed why I laughed till my wife had a fright, for fear I'd go wild from that joke of the night. And they're all much like that one, elusive enough, yet full of facetious, hilarious stuff, stuff past comprehension, stuff no man dares tell, for nocturnal jests in towed ever so well. It is odd it should be so, or not often bright, except to the dreamer who dreams them at night. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. An autumnal romance by John Kendrick Bangs. Red Four LibriVox by Kevin Hesse. A leaf fell in love with a soft green lawn, he deemed her the sweetest and best, and then on a dreary November dawn, he withered and died on her breast. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Country in July by John Kendrick Bangs. Red Four LibriVox by Kevin Hesse. We're glistening in the softness of the night, the vagrant willowess do greet the sight, where fragrance baffling permeates the breeze, that gently flouts the grasses and the trees, where every flying thing doth seem to be instinct with sweetly sensuous melody, where hills and dales assume their warmest phase, with here and there a scarf of opal haze to soften the luxurious attire, where one can almost hear the alphan choir across the meadowland, down in the wood, and songs of gladness, there are all things good. Ah, ye who seek the spot where joys abide, awake, awake, seek out the countryside, and through the blue-grey July hay see life fall free from care, from sorrow, and from strife. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. May 30th, 1893 by John Kendrick Bangs. It seemed to be but chance, yet who shall say that was not part of nature's own sweet way, that on the field were once the cannon's breath lay many a hero cold and stark in death. Some little children in the after-years had come to play among grassy spears, and all unheeding when their romp was done had left a wreath of wildflowers over one, who fought to save his country, and whose lot it was to die unknown and rest for God. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Curse of Wealth by John Kendrick Bangs. Read for LabourFox.org by Kathleen. What shall I put my dollars in? He asked, and while dismay, I have fifty thousand of them, and I'd like to keep them, too. I'd like to put them by to serve some future rainy day, but in these times of queer finance what can a fellow do? A railway bond is picturesque, and the supply is great, but strangely, like a novel that upon occasion drags, of which the critics of the time in hackneyed phrases state, the work has certain value, but interest often flags. The same is true of railway shares. Tis safer to invest in plowshares, so it seems to me, in this unhappy time, some think great wealth a blessing, but it cannot stand the test. He's happier by far than I whose but a single dime. He does not lie awake at night in frat and fume, to think of bank officials on a spree with what he's toiled to get. He is not driven by his woe quite to the verge of drink by wondering if his balance in the bank remains there yet. He does not pick the paper up in terror every night to see if VBG is up or PDQ is down. It does not fill his anxious soul with nerve-destroying fright to hear the wall street rumors that are flying about the town. Ah, better had I tain that cash that I have skimped to save, and spent it on my living and my pleasures day by day. I would not now be goaded nigh unto my waiting grave, by wondering how the deuce to keep those dollars mine for I. I'd not be bankrupt in my nerves and prematurely old. These golden shackles must be burst. I must again be free. What hoe without my duckets to the winds with all my gold, that I may once again enjoy the rest of poverty. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Rime of the Ancient Populus by John Kendrick Bangs Read for LibreFox.org by Kathleen It was an ancient populist. His beard was long and gray, and punctuated by his fist. He had his little say. This is the age of gold, he said. Tis gold for butter, gold for bread, gold for bonds, and gold for fun, gold for all things neath the sun. Then with a smile he shook his head. Just wait a while, he slightly said. When we get in and run the state, we'll tackle gold. We'll legislate. We'll pass an act, and make a fact, by which these gold bugs will be whacked, till they're as cold as is their gold. We're going to make a statute law by which it will be decreed that standards are abolished, for a standard favors greed. This is the country of the free, and free this land shall be. As soon as we, the people, have our opportunity, and he who has to pay a bill can pay in what air suits his will. The tailor? Let him take his coats and pay his notes. Or if, perchance, he's long on pants, let trousers be his LSD. The baker? Let his landlord take his rent and cake, or anything the man can bake. And if a plumber wants a crumb, he may on to the baker come and plum. A joker needing hats or cloaks can go and pay for them with jokes. And so on. What a fellow's got shall pay for things that he has not. If beggars' rags were cash, you'd see no longer any beggary. In short, there'd be no poverty. A splendid scheme, quoth I, but stay. What of the nation's credit? Pray. Ha-ha, ho-ho, he loudly roared. We'll leave that problem to the Lord. And if he fails to keep us straight, once more we'll have to legislate, and so create confounding greed as much of credit as we need. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. One of the Nameless Great by John Kendrick Bangs Read for LabourFox.org by Kathleen I knew a man who died in days of yore to whom no monument is like to rise. And yet there never lived a mortal, more deserving of a shaft to pierce the skies. His chiefest wish, strong friendships, was to make. He cared but little for this poor world's pelf. He shared his joys with everyone who'd take, and kept his sorrows strictly to himself. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. And February Days by John Kendrick Bangs Read for LabourFox.org by Kathleen Fair nature, like the mother of a wayward child who needs must chide the offspring of her heart. Disguise-eth for a season all the sweet and mild maternal softness for an austere part. And, neath her frown, the errant earth in winter seems prostrate to lie, and petulant of mood, restrained in icy fetters all the babbling streams, like naughty babes who are learning to be good. Then, in the second month, most motherlike again, the frown assumed it gives now and then a place to soft, indulgent glances, lessening the pain, and hints of spring and pardon light her face. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A Change of Ambition by John Kendrick Bangs Read for LabourFox.org by Kathleen Horatious at the Bridge And he who fought at Old Thermopylae Great Samson in his potent bone by which the Philistines were slown Small David with his wondrous aim that did for him of giant fame Jay Caesar in his gallic scraps that made him lord of other chaps Sweet William called the Conqueror who made the Britain sick of war King Hal the Fifth who nobly fought and thrashed the foe at Agincourt, Old Bornapart, and Washington and Frederick, and Wellington, Decatur, Nelson, Fighting Joe, and Farragut, and Grant and O. A thousand other heroes I have wished I were in days gone by can take their laurels from my door for I don't want them anymore. The truth will out. It can't be hid. The dowdy deed that Dewey did in that far-distant Spanish sea is really good enough for me. The grammar's bad, but, oh my son, I wish I did what Dewey done. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Message from Mahatmas by John Kendrick Bangs Read for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson Oncet Bay, Massachusetts May 24th, 18 Theosophists and others at Oncet Bay campgrounds have been greatly excited of late by a message which has been received from the Mahatmas Coutoumi and his partner who are summering in the desert of Gobi. The message is of considerable length and contains much that is purely personal. Daily newspaper Sound the timbrel, beat the drum, word from the Mahatmas come. Straight from Humi Cout and Co. comes the note to us below. Full of joy and gossiping, Humi Cout is summering in the desert waste of Gobi in a cottage of Adobe. All the little Cout's are well. Tommy Cout is learned to spell. Mrs. Cout is busy on papers on the Great Anon, which by special cable soon, from her workshop in the moon, will be sent to us below by Grand Humi Cout and Co. We are told that Maggie Cout looks well in her golfing suit, and her brand new astral bike is the best they've seen this psych. Psych is slang for cycle, so I have learned from Cout and Co. So she's going to take a run out from the Gobi to the sun, after which he thinks to race for the championship of space, and a trophy given by the Grand High Pasupati. Baby Cout has learned to walk, and likewise to said to talk. But to Mrs. Cout's dismay seems to have a funny way full of questions, why and how, all about the sacred cow. Questions of flippant ilk, like is Buddha made of milk? Questions void of answer spite of his parent's second sight. What to do with Baby Cout worries all the whole Cout. Finally the message ends with best love to all our friends. Give our enemies a twist, let each true theosophist strike a thunder-hitting blow for the firm of Cout and Co. Strike till back as every eye, doubting our theosophy, and impress on every tribe now's the season to subscribe. Guard against the coming storm, keep our astral bodies warm, give us bonnets for the head, keep our spirits stomachs fed, let your glad remittance go out to whommy Cout and Co. Through their agents on the earth, men and women full of worth, and when next the message comes from the Cout's down to their chums, those who paid their money down will receive a harp and crown. Step up lively, now's the time for your nickel and your dime, to provide for winter suits for the grand Mahatma Cout's. Furthermore, be not too brash, send it up in solid cash, astral money it may be, circulates in theory, but tis best to give us cold, bilious, drossy, filthy gold. All our blessings to you go. Yours for health, H. Cout's and Co. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Gold Seekers by John Kendrick Bangs. Read for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson. Gold, gold, gold. What care we for hunger and cold? What care we for the moll and strife, or the thousands of foes to health and life, when there's gold for the mighty, and gold for the meek, and gold for whoever shall dare to seek? Untold is the gold, and it lies in the reach of the man that's bold, in the hands of the man who dares to face the death in the blast that blows the pace, that withers the leaves on the forest tree, that fetters with ice all the northern sea, that chills all the green on the fair earth's breast, and it certainly kills as the unstayed pest. It lies in the hands of the man who'd sell his hold on his life for an ice-bound hell. What care we for the fevered brain that's filled with ravines and thoughts insane, so long as we hold in our hands the gold? The glistening, glittering, ghastly gold that comes at the end of the hunger and cold, that comes at the end of the awful thirst, that comes through the pain and torture a cursed of limbs that are wracked in mind's oar-throne. The gold lies there in his all our own, be we mighty or meek if we do but seek. For the hungorous wheat and the cold is fair to the man whose riches are past compare, and the oar-throne mind is as good as sane, and a joy to the limbs is the racking pain if the gold is there. And they say if you fail in your dying day, all the tears, all the troubles are wiped away by the fever-thought of your shattered mind that a cruel world has at last grown kind, that your hands are run with the clinking gold, with nuggets of weight and worth untold, and your vacant eyes gloat o'er the riches of paradise. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Ode to a Politician by John Kendrick Bangs read Philippi Vox.org by Alan Lawley. O hail to thee, O son of Eolus, O hail to thee, Most High Borean Lord, the lineo-descendant of the winds art thou, child to the cyclone, cousin to the hurricane, tornado's twin, all hail, the ciphers of the Balmy South do greet thee, the eastern winds, great Boston's pride, in manner osculate caress thy massive cheek, freeze unto thee, and at thy word throw off congealment, and take on a soft, caloric mood, and from afar, from Afric Strand, Sirocken greetings come to thee, the monsoon and Simum, in a soft and purple orient, at mention of thy name, doth all the hats of heathen them, and all combined in one vast aggregation, cry out hail, hail, thrice hail to thee, who, after years and centuries, and cycle-zine, has made the winds imparnate, to thee the visible expression in the flesh, material and tangible, of all that goes to make the element, that rages, blusters, blasts, and blows, and if the poet's mind speaks true, if he can penetrate their purposes at all, it is not far from their intent, to lift thee on their broad November wings, so high, that none but gods can ever hope, again to gaze upon thy face. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Some are amateurs by John Kendrick Bangs. Read for LibriVox.org by April 690, California, United States of America. Shakespeare was partly wrong. The world's a stage. This is admitted by the Bard's detractors. Had William seen some hamlets of this age, he'd not have called all men upon it actors. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. End of cobwebs from a library corner by John Kendrick-