A Wodehouse Miscellany: Articles & Stories, P. G. Wodehouse [digital ebook reader TXT] 📗
- Author: P. G. Wodehouse
Book online «A Wodehouse Miscellany: Articles & Stories, P. G. Wodehouse [digital ebook reader TXT] 📗». Author P. G. Wodehouse
the dramatists. Of the older playwrights, Barrie produced a new one and an ancient one, but the Shakespeare boom, so strong last year, petered out. There seems no doubt that the man, in spite of a flashy start, had not the stuff. I understand that some of his things are doing fairly well on the road. Clare Kummer, whose "Dearie" I have so frequently sung in my bath, to the annoyance of all, suddenly turned right round, dropped song-writing, and ripped a couple of hot ones right over the plate. Mr. Somerset Maugham succeeded in shocking Broadway so that the sidewalks were filled with blushing ticket-speculators.
POEMS
DAMON AND PYTHIAS
THE HAUNTED TRAM Ghosts of The Towers, The Grange, The Court, Ghosts of the Castle Keep. Ghosts of the finicking, "high-life" sort Are growing a trifle cheap. But here is a spook of another stamp, No thin, theatrical sham, But a spectre who fears not dirt nor damp: He rides on a London tram. By the curious glance of a mortal eye He is not seen. He's heard. His steps go a-creeping, creeping by, He speaks but a single word. You may hear his feet: you may hear them plain, For—it's odd in a ghost—they crunch. You may hear the whirr of his rattling chain, And the ting of his ringing punch. The gathering shadows of night fall fast; The lamps in the street are lit; To the roof have the eerie footsteps passed, Where the outside passengers sit. To the passenger's side has the spectre paced; For a moment he halts, they say, Then a ring from the punch at the unseen waist, And the footsteps pass away. That is the tale of the haunted car; And if on that car you ride You won't, believe me, have journeyed far Ere the spectre seeks your side. Ay, all unseen by your seat he'll stand, And (unless it's a wig) your hair Will rise at the touch of his icy hand, And the sound of his whispered "Fare!" At the end of the trip, when you're getting down (And you'll probably simply fly!) Just give the conductor half-a-crown, Ask who is the ghost and why. And the man will explain with bated breath (And point you a moral) thus: "'E's a pore young bloke wot wos crushed to death By people as fought As they didn't ought For seats on a crowded bus."
STORIES
Most of the critics have done good work during this season. As for myself, I have guided the public mind in this magazine soundly and with few errors. If it were not for the fact that nearly all the plays I praised died before my review appeared, while the ones I said would not run a week are still packing them in, I could look back to a flawless season.
As you can see, I have had a very pleasant theatrical season. The weather was uniformly fine on the nights when I went to the theatre. I was particularly fortunate in having neighbors at most of the plays who were not afflicted with coughs or a desire to explain the plot to their wives. I have shaken hands with A. L. Erlanger and been nodded to on the street by Lee Shubert. I have broadened my mind by travel on the road with a theatrical company, with the result that, if you want to get me out of New York, you will have to use dynamite.
Take it for all in all, a most satisfactory season, full of pregnant possibilities—and all that sort of thing.
POEMS
DAMON AND PYTHIAS
A Romance
Since Earth was first created, Since Time began to fly, No friends were e'er so mated, So firm as JONES and I. Since primal Man was fashioned To people ice and stones, No pair, I ween, had ever been Such chums as I and JONES. In fair and foulest weather, Beginning when but boys, We faced our woes together, We shared each other's joys. Together, sad or merry, We acted hand in glove, Until—'twas careless, very— I chanced to fall in love. The lady's points to touch on, Her name was JULIA WHITE, Her lineage high, her scutcheon Untarnished; manners, bright; Complexion, soft and creamy; Her hair, of golden hue; Her eyes, in aspect, dreamy, In colour, greyish blue. For her I sighed, I panted; I saw her in my dreams; I vowed, protested, ranted; I sent her chocolate creams. Until methought one morning I seemed to hear a voice, A still, small voice of warning. "Does JONES approve your choice?" To JONES of my affection I spoke that very night. If he had no objection, I said I'd wed Miss WHITE. I asked him for his blessing, But, turning rather blue, He said: "It's most distressing, But I adore her, too." "Then, JONES," I answered, sobbing, "My wooing's at an end, I couldn't think of robbing My best, my only friend. The notion makes me furious— I'd much prefer to die." "Perhaps you'll think it curious," Said JONES, "but so should I." Nor he nor I would falter In our resolve one jot. I bade him seek the altar, He vowed that he would not. "She's yours, old fellow. Make her As happy as you can." "Not so," said I, "you take her— You are the lucky man." At length—the situation Had lasted now a year— I had an inspiration, Which seemed to make things clear. "Supposing," I suggested, "We ask Miss WHITE to choose? I should be interested To hear her private views. "Perhaps she has a preference— I own it sounds absurd— But I submit, with deference, That she might well be heard. In clear, commercial diction The case in point we'll state, Disclose the cause of friction, And leave the rest to Fate." We did, and on the morrow The postman brought us news. Miss WHITE expressed her sorrow At having to refuse. Of all her many reasons This seemed to me the pith: Six months before (or rather more) She'd married Mr. SMITH.
THE HAUNTED TRAM Ghosts of The Towers, The Grange, The Court, Ghosts of the Castle Keep. Ghosts of the finicking, "high-life" sort Are growing a trifle cheap. But here is a spook of another stamp, No thin, theatrical sham, But a spectre who fears not dirt nor damp: He rides on a London tram. By the curious glance of a mortal eye He is not seen. He's heard. His steps go a-creeping, creeping by, He speaks but a single word. You may hear his feet: you may hear them plain, For—it's odd in a ghost—they crunch. You may hear the whirr of his rattling chain, And the ting of his ringing punch. The gathering shadows of night fall fast; The lamps in the street are lit; To the roof have the eerie footsteps passed, Where the outside passengers sit. To the passenger's side has the spectre paced; For a moment he halts, they say, Then a ring from the punch at the unseen waist, And the footsteps pass away. That is the tale of the haunted car; And if on that car you ride You won't, believe me, have journeyed far Ere the spectre seeks your side. Ay, all unseen by your seat he'll stand, And (unless it's a wig) your hair Will rise at the touch of his icy hand, And the sound of his whispered "Fare!" At the end of the trip, when you're getting down (And you'll probably simply fly!) Just give the conductor half-a-crown, Ask who is the ghost and why. And the man will explain with bated breath (And point you a moral) thus: "'E's a pore young bloke wot wos crushed to death By people as fought As they didn't ought For seats on a crowded bus."
STORIES
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