Part 2

“Gobble-me-up is my name, A Happy Giant am I ... And I always feel just the same ... And I’ll sing this song till I die.”

When he came to this point he would always whirl about on his left heel three times, and clap his hands above his head.

Now at the particular moment when my story would be beginning if I hadn’t wasted all this time talking, Gobble-me-up was just setting out for his morning walk. He was tossing his head in the breeze ... it was the first day of Spring, you see ... and he breathed in the ozone, and enjoyed it, because he didn’t know that it was ozone. And, according to his habit, he began to sing:

“Gobble-me-up is my name....”

when all of a sudden three clams that were lying on the beach opened their shells very wide, and laughed, in perfect rhythm:

“Ha! HA!! HA!!!”

Gobble-me-up looked about in surprise, and the clams continued to laugh in a way that was rude, even for clams.

Then Gobble-me-up became very angry ... no self-respecting Giant likes to be laughed at. He shook his curls at them, trying to look very fierce indeed. At last he sputtered:

“WHAT do you Mean By Talking to ME Like =that=?”

(He was so angry, you see, that he leaped into free verse, a thing which had always been against his principles.)

When the clams had laughed until they could laugh no more, and had rolled over in the sand to wipe the perspiration off their shells, the most imposing clam answered him.

“Ha! ha!” she said (I am quite sure it was a “she”), “the idea of a giant who only eats rhubarb ... he! he! ... the idea of =his= being called Gobble-me-up!”

At this all the other clams went off into wild gales of laughter, and snapped their shells to show how very funny they thought it was.

Gobble-me-up was perplexed. He didn’t quite know what they meant. But they did not intend to leave him in any doubt about this. They explained immediately, interrupting each other, and acting in a way that was very rude indeed.

They said that he ought to be a “very-cannibal-and-wear-a-red-sash-and- whiskers-and-eat-up-little-boys-and-girls” (they said it quickly, like that) and that he ought to go around muttering dreadful things like:

“Fe, fi, fo, fum, I smell the blood of an Englishmun,”

instead of reciting his silly little rhymes. They said that he should flourish a tomahawk, and dye his hair black, or at least train it to stand up on end. In fact they abused him horribly, telling him that he was ruining the time-honored reputation of the race of Giants. Any Giant, they said, to be worthy of the name, should endeavor to represent all the Giants on every occasion. He, they said, was an unsatisfactory specimen, and therefore deserved to be squelched most effectively. This they felt to be their duty, and unpleasant though it was, it had to be done.

After this last remark, they sighed sadly, and retired into their shells.

* * * * *

From that moment on, Gobble-me-up was a changed giant. He hardly ever laughed, and when he sang his little song he put it in a minor key, which shows how very sad he was. Every morning he spoiled his rhubarb by weeping salty tears into it.

He felt that he really must do =something=.

He sat down on a log to think about it. He turned his toes inward so that they might console each other. He dug his elbows hard into his knees, and held his forehead in his hands. Then he said to himself:

“The clams win out, Without a doubt, I’ve simply ruined my rep ... I must fix this, Or else, I wis, I’ll have to get some pep.”

This last thought seemed to appeal to him a great deal, even though the rhyme wasn’t very good.

But as he pondered it, he had a more awful thought. How could he act like a blood-thirsty Giant, and go about killing men, when he was the only creature that was anything like a man on the island?

It was a most disturbing idea, and for three days it bothered him. He grew paler, and proportionately thinner. He did not weep into his rhubarb now, but left it strictly alone.

* * * * *

And then he found a solution, and worked it out in a manner truly worthy of a Giant. This was what he did:

One night, when the moon was hidden and the stars were yawning and dropping off to sleep, one by one, he crept out along the beach. Without a sound, he crept up behind the three sleeping clams. Stealthily he reached out his left hand, took the youngest by its little neck and squashed it. Noiselessly he stretched out his right hand, and grasped the second one. And with a maddened shriek of triumph he grabbed up the last clam, before it could snap its shell at him.

With an exalted countenance, he pranced up and down the beach, shouting his paean of victory, so that the stars stopped blinking, and the moon peered around the corner of a cloud to listen:

“Gobble-me-up is my name, A Fearsome Giant am I, I’ve a dreadful awesome fame, Which nobody can deny...! Gobble-me-up is my name, No Giant is madder than I ... Ha! =Ha!!= Ha! =Ha!!= No Giant is madder than I!”

Whereupon he sat down on his log, and, one by one he =ate= the clams.

It didn’t matter at all that he had indigestion the next day. He knew that he really was an honest-to-goodness Giant, and the thought made him laugh and shake all over, just as he used to do in the good old days, before the clams had tried to disillusion him.

THE PIPER

The valley is clad in a misty white fog, Where the Sun God dares not intrude, The hoots of the night owls have dulled and have died, And the whimpering night winds brood.

Over the purple-topped rims of the earth, Riding a proud little breeze, Are tinkling pipings that whisper that Pan, Away from the haunts of humdrum man, Has led forth the day from the seas.... Dancing and prancing o’er grove and o’er hill, Rollicking, frolicking, gay, Glad in the fragrance, and glad in the dawn, And proud to be leading the day.

The grey gnomes that live in the fog hear his pipes, And they hide in their thick weeping veils, And they dwindle and melt at the sound of his mirth, When his cloven hoofs dance in the dales.

Now the King of the Day has awakened at last, And has climbed to his throne in the sky, And the world is astir in its workaday tasks ... But Pan has gone merrily by.

Now a child who lives in the village lane Hears the reed notes and tries to pursue; Fast he leaps over rocks on the heath on his way ... All of a sudden the piping is near ... Now it’s lost to him ... again, it is here ... For sudden Pan comes ... e’er you grasp for his cheer, Sudden he’s sung, and away.

Away from the heart of everyday folk To the hills where the west wind blows; Laughing and dancing and chasing the bees ... (How dreary for them just to hum in their hives!) When the brown brook is gurgling, and sings as it flows, And the blood-red poppy smiles as it blows ... Over the hills, and away ... Smiles that Pan comes ... e’er you see him, he goes ... Sudden he’s sung, and away.

AN INTERVIEW WITH RICHARD THE LION-HEARTED

“I don’t like women,” said Richard of Brookline, and to prove it he sucked more violently upon a lavender lollipop.

Richard spoke with all the authority of one who has spent seven years living across the street from five fair ladies. One might mention that these seven years were his first spent anywhere, and that these fair but fearsome feminists ranged from six to sixteen. The locale was Brookline, and the time romantic summer--at this point my story begins.

Not long ago Richard wandered down the broad highway sucking upon his solitary lollipop, and wearing on his eyebrows the air of a world-weary capitalist. He did not offer to share his bounty with the ladies across the way, but did not object to having them watch him from their lollipopless porch. It was this haughty attitude that first made the Sleuth suspect him to be a woman hater.

And so the Sleuth set off upon his trail immediately, but Richard, like many a courtly gentleman, proved to be as diffident as he was bold.

“Why don’t you like women?” he was asked. And he replied:

“Because.”

“Because what?” the Sleuth persisted; whereupon Richard raised his eyebrows with an air of finality.

“Because I don’t,” he said.

“Don’t you like your Mama?” he was asked, and regarded the questioner scornfully.

“She isn’t a girl,” quoth he.

“But she probably was once!” The Sleuth hazarded a guess.

Alas, at this point Richard was called to bed. But the next day the argument was continued. It was after a nerve-racking game of puss-in-the-corner, when the assembled court had been astonished at the lion-hearted Richard’s chivalry. Twice had he surrendered his hard-earned corner to a fluffy little four-year-old blond. The Sleuth joshed him as man to man. But Richard smiled about it, and man-like waived present contingencies to speak glittering generalities.

“Girls,” he said, “are like fish.” But he omitted further details; and as he mused on the matter, his thoughts fell into metaphors. “Like fish,” he repeated solemnly. And then he spied a crop of bobbed and almost masculine hair that was bouncing outside the hedge fence. “Or like hares. Some say that they are chickens, but I think that they are more like trees.”

“Because they wear fine feathers,” someone contributed.

“Certainly,” he agreed.

“But you don’t think they’re all shady, do you?” the Sleuth hastened to interpose.

“Most are,” he sighed.

And at this point he rose, to show that the interview was at an end, and, swinging his tin drum about his neck, he solemnly paraded down the block to that very masculine tune “Johnny get your Gun.”

DAUGHTER-GOOSE RHYMES

I

Little Jack Horner Sat in a corner Busily writing checks ... His partners grew lazy, His balance hazy, His creditors all became wrecks!

II

Flitter, flitter, little dime, You can stay here a long time. If I leave you as I oughter Pretty soon you’ll be a quarter!

III

Little Miss Millions Longed to have billions, And dreamed about trillions beside; But while she was sighing, Not working, just crying ... Her bank account dwindled and died!

Little Miss Penny Didn’t have any Money at all, but she tried; And so she kept saving, And ardently slaving ... And she owned a house when she died!

IV

Ride in a taxi, The Biltmore for lunch ... Eat ... for the music Will play while you munch.

Eat all you want to, While large grows your dome ... For after you’ve eaten You’ll have to walk home!

V

Old Mr. Croesus Was worried to pieces To pay for the monthly rent ... For what with investments, And bonds and assessments, He found all his money had went!

VI

Ike and Mike (They look alike) Began to work together ... But Ike was sly, While Mike ran dry ... So they struck stormy weather!

VII

Dickory, dickory, dock, The ticker reported the stock, Each bull a bear, Brokers, beware Dickory, dickory, dock!

VIII

“Hi diddle, diddle ...” “Hoorah, ich ga bibble” The pawn-brokers chortle in glee ... The bankers all giggle to see the fun, And int’rest mounts high as can be!

IX

Sing a song of sixpence ... A suitcase full of rye ... But that is meant for millionaires ... The rest of us go dry!

BEAUTY AND THE BEACH

Once upon a time before Caesar had conquered Britain, and therefore in the very early days indeed, there dwelt in southern England a princess named Talc. Her life was pampered and happy, just like the lives of all the princesses who lived a long time ago. Each day she sat by the edge of a pool of still green water, and allowed her handmaidens to comb her tresses (it was in the days, you see, when ladies wore tresses where most modern folk wear hair).

“I am very beautiful,” she remarked casually, glancing at herself in the pool, “but ...”

“Yes, indeed, Madam,” chorused the handmaidens, who did not realize that she was about to say more.

“Silence, wretches,” snapped the princess, squirting water at them with a lily white hand, and thereby mussing up her image in the pool. Then she continued in a low tragic tone: “I have a blemish, I tell you. My nose shines. Poets have written of brilliant eyes and gleaming teeth, but not one has mentioned a glittering nose. Therefore I know that the perfect nose does not shine. My beauty is ruined. Ah woe is me, ah woe is me!” An she bowed her head forward, sobbing so violently that she pulled the pigtails out of her handmaidens’ grasp.

“No more,” she roared at them, as they started to reclaim the lost tresses. And then she sobbed as though her heart would break, “Oh my blemish, oh my nose, oh my nose, oh my blemish. Throw away your combs. I am going to tell the sea of my woe. I am going to walk along the cliffs. You may follow at a distance.”

She sprang to her feet, and hurried to the cliffs. She looked at the sea roaring on the rocks below.

“Oh sea,” she moaned in her grief, “what would you do if you had a nose and it was shiny?”

As she was thus bewailing she stumbled and fell upon the smooth, soft, chalky cliffs. When she lifted herself up she found that her hands were covered with a white dust.

“Arabella!” she called to her handmaiden, “bring me a bowl of water.”

Talc looked into the glassy surface of the water. Lo and behold her nose no longer shone, but was white with a thick opaque whiteness!

“My beauty!” she exulted, “my beauty has returned! Arabella, you may get the comb and continue in the making of my royal pigtails. Neither my nose nor my chin shines. I am truly beautiful.” And she rejoiced until the tears flowed down her face, making furrows in their whiteness.

And thereafter each morning the princess and her handmaidens could be seen prostrate upon the cliff, solemnly rubbing their noses in its smooth dust.

SENSATIONS OF SWINBURNING

I fly through the air ... Ah where, tell me where Shall I land, when I drop? Shall I splash? Shall I flop? When I plunge in the sea ... Will the waves cover me? Pause I here on the brink ... Will I float? Will I sink Through the green, glassy waves ... Through the myriad of deep...? When I die, shall I sleep ... In the murm’ring sea caves? Pray, is life fair enough...? Shall I plunge from the bluff Take the ultimate jump? And land there ... ... with a thump?

DAY DREAMS

“We had a table cloth, as white as the paint on the wall beside my kitchen stove, when it was new, five years ago. Ice tinkled in the glasses, but I saw every glass cloud up to hide the ice, because it costs an awful lot these days: They brought the turkey in,--it must have weighed twelve pounds. Its brown breast was so fat it seemed about to burst. It sizzled. Um. Then came the cranberry, all red and clear and quivery from its mold. A pianola played all the time, and we danced on the swell white tiles up to the cashier’s desk.

“I had on a picture hat, black velvet, trimmed with fur and cloth of gold, just like a movie star--that’s how I felt. Say, ain’t it queer, the things you dream about?”

A half a loaf of bread lay awry on a crumby and rumpled and mended table cloth where the breakfast dishes were stacked in crooked piles. The room was dark ... an oil stove in the corner made the hot air heavier. On the tubs, wrapped in towels, a tiny baby lay. The mother was speaking: and trying to wipe the wisps of hair out of her heavy eyes. She said: “Say, ain’t it queer the things you dream about?”

RAIN IN THE CITY AT NIGHT

The streets are black. They shine. And every light, From lamp-post and from store, Makes a golden path Across the street.

Drops of rain Spatter, And trickle down The glowing window panes.

Red and yellow, With silver frosting. That’s all that I can see In the windows.

CHRISTMAS

Christmas doesn’t come on the twenty-fifth of December. It begins with the first cold, snappy day, when ladies, fur-coated, and with unaccustomed red noses patter down Broadway. Tall fragrant pine trees, their branches roped in, are piled on the curbs. There are little stacks of very, very green stands, leaning against a box of rosy cheeked apples. Delivery boys bustle about, much more energetically than ever before. In the windows cauliflowers and half frozen beets cuddle in a bed of red crepe paper in an attempt to keep warm and cheerful. Next door the fish-man has garnished his wares with holly and eked a “Merry Christmas” on the frosty window pane. On the corner the Salvation Army girl stamps to keep warm and tinkles her little bell.

And it’s not even December twenty-fourth!

A ROMANTIC ADVENTURE INTO RELIGION

Once upon a time there Was a little Girl. And she never read the Bible, and when her fond parents Decided that she ought to be Religiously educated, she Rebelled, and on Sundays developed Colds--and so forth. But-- When anyone mentioned Saul or Rachel or Anything, she felt Uncomfortable And blushed And giggled And tried to Change the subject, which She couldn’t always do.

And everyone accused her of not “Having religion” Until she fully Believed it.

Bye and bye When she grew older she Began to wonder

What this =religion= That everybody thought so much about-- That preachers preached about-- That revivalists ranted about-- Is.

And when she asked People Some carefully stroked their beards And thoughtfully cleaned their spectacles And said:--“It is The divine life in the human soul” whatever That is. And some Sat up straight And promptly answered “The natural gratitude to God for creating us which makes us want to obey his commands, in return,” which Was clearer, but sounded too much like a Bargain.

And she asked some who had been Brought up on Catechisms and Things. And they Looked shocked at the Question.

Perhaps because they Didn’t know.

And there were many More answers But The girl thought That, as there Were so many and So many people had Bothered about it, It must be pretty Important and Useful.

And so she looked Up in card indices and Read many Deep books And had many Deep discussions And things.

Finally she decided That Religion is a very Personal thing, And so There couldn’t be a Single definition for Everyone.

But as for herself, she Considered it One’s idea of perfection, The attempt to live up to this idea as an ideal,

And

One’s attitude toward the world in trying to do this.

And as for the ways of “getting religion” She could not believe That this should be Thrust upon a poor defenseless Babe, or that a mean advantage should be Taken of his Youth By his parents, in biasing his Later saner judgment by Prejudicing him in favor of certain Opinions that They Happened to have.

She did not mean That one should not read the Bible, or obey general morals or Know who Rachel was or Be as uneducated, as She. She meant that one should be Left to oneself, When it comes to thinking out What his Motive in life, And Conception of perfection, and Explanation of the big whys of Life, and Things Like that Are.

For one must get an Understanding of such Things (If one is to have a =real= understanding of them) Either through Much theory, Or better, By the experience which only Living gives-- If you get what I mean.

But, Thought the girl, What is the use of Worrying About things like that Anyhow?

And then she Realized how People always turn toward Religion When they are in Trouble; as the Religious revival in Europe now Shows. And she realized the Comfort that they Get From it. And after all It is only natural that when Material things And means toward the real end Go wrong, And one feels blue, That one should try to Look ahead And beyond At the =real= goal, And get Cheered up, By the confirmation that there =is= a goal. And that is one use of Religion.

And besides People Are apt to be too Materialistic, nowadays. And the very presence of ideals, Or recognition of their presence, Will lead one Beyond Such narrowness And Such binding materialism, and so Will lead to Higher ideals-- Hence Higher strivings-- Hence A better world-- Which is An asset in itself, If you get what I Mean.

And this is the Real Use of religion.

And with this off her mind she felt better.

SUNDAY

A-top the palisades that touch the sky Where friendly elms flirt with each passing cloud, There let me lie--with Heaven for my shroud, With Nature live, and close to Nature die.

I, too, would flirt with clouds that pass me by, Holding my head aloft, my spirit proud, Only by Nature’s wrath shall I be cowed, Only by hand of Providence I die.

For Art we live, since Art is Nature’s toy, Fashioned each man in mold almost the same ... Religion, Nation, Race ... are things of name. Cast these aside--God’s playthings are for joy.

Amongst the waves that vainly slap the shore, Please God, help me to carry on some more.

NEW YEAR’S DAY

An evening dress in a window ... Sheer, Crimson; An ostrich fan beside it ... Soft Willowy.

Outside the hard cold glass, A woman. Pale cheeked, Red nosed, Clutches a furless muff And pulls her frayed coat collar About her scrawny neck.

Gentleman in a high hat, Tan gloves, Yellow cane, Fur coat. Buys spring flowers From a dirty-faced Greek.

Confetti in long yellow streamers, Lying on the grey curbstone. Shivering children Rolling it up.

SILENCE

You think the house is silent when you’re out?

The ticking clock Obtrudes its measured beat, Slower than before. The windows knock. ’Way down the hall I hear a creaking door.

A tenseness in the air ... Someone behind me. Frantically I try to think ... Of other things ... Of anything ... “This is mere nonsense ... Nonsense, Nonsense ... The room =is= empty!” Hush ... What was that noise out in the hall? That brushing sound...? That creaking...?

Oh, how can you think The house is silent when I’m here alone?

BLUFFING

So that was Russian Art--A blotch of red And yellow flames, and towers childishly Drawn in thick lines, and curved as though the walls Were falling in. Scores and scores of these Were crowded in a narrow frame, thick piled That left us stunned, amazed--we could not guess From the queer Russian signs and mumbled words What we were meant to think the show was for.

But going out, we coughed importantly And then we said “Here’s a new tone in Art.”

While inwardly we wondered what =that= meant.

THE DELICATESSEN SHOP