He took the wings--that foolish boy--without the least dismay; His father stuck 'em on with wax, and so he soared away; Up, up he rises, like a bird, and not a moment stops Until he's fairly out of sight beyond the mountain-tops! X And still he flies--away--away; it seems the merest fun; No marvel he is getting bold, and aiming at the sun; No marvel he forgets his sire; it isn't very odd That one so far above the earth should think himself a god! XI Already, in his silly pride, he's gone too far aloft; The heat begins to scorch his wings; the wax is waxing soft; Down--down he goes!--Alas!--next day poor Icarus was found Afloat upon the AEgean Sea, extremely damp and drowned! L'ENVOI The moral of this mournful tale is plain enough to all:-- Don't get above your proper sphere, or you may chance to fall; Remember, too, that borrowed plumes are most uncertain things; And never try to scale the sky with other people's wings! VIVE LA BAGATELLE ("_Swift's Cheerful Creed_") BY CLINTON SCOLLARD A bumper to the jolly Dean Who, in "Augustan" times, Made merriment for fat and lean In jocund prose and rhymes! Ah, but he drove a pranksome quill! With quips he wove a spell; His creed--he cried it with a will-- Was "_Vive la bagatelle!_" Oh, there were reckless jesters then! And when a man was hit, He quick returned the stroke again With trenchant blade of wit. 'Twas parry, thrust, and counter-thrust That round the board befell; They quaffed the wine and crunched the crust With "_Vive la bagatelle!_" How rang the genial laugh of Gay At Pope's defiant ire! How Parnell's sallies brought in play The rapier wit of Prior! And how o'er all the banter's shift-- The laughter's fall and swell-- Upleaped the great guffaw of Swift, With "_Vive la bagatelle!_" O moralist, frown not so dark, Purse not thy lip severe; 'T will warm the heart if ye but hark The mirth of "yester year." To-day we wear too grave a face; We slave,--we buy and sell; Forget a while mad Mammon's race In "_Vive la bagatelle!_" A STACCATO TO O LE LUPE BY BLISS CARMAN O Le Lupe, Gelett Burgess, this is very sad to find: In _The Bookman_ for September, in a manner most unkind, There appears a half-page picture, makes me think I've lost my mind. They have reproduced a window,--Doxey's window,--(I dare say In your rambles you have seen it, passed it twenty times a day,) As "A Novel Exhibition of Examples of Decay." There is Nordau we all sneer at, and Verlaine we all adore, And a little book of verses with its betters by the score, With three faces on the cover I believe I've seen before. Well, here's matter for reflection, makes me wonder where I am. Here is Ibsen the gray lion, linked to Beardsley the black lamb. I was never out of Boston: all that I can say is, "Damn!"