I make no apology; I've learned owl-eology. I've passed days and nights in a hundred collections, And cannot be blinded to any deflections Arising from unskilful fingers that fail To stuff a bird right, from his beak to his tail. Do take that bird down, Or you'll soon be the laughing-stock all over town!" "I've studied owls And other night fowls, And I tell you What I know to be true: An owl cannot roost With his limbs so unloosed; No owl in this world Ever had his claws curled, Ever had his legs slanted, Ever had his bill canted, Into that attitude. He can't do it, because An owl has a toe That can't turn out so! I've made the white owl my study for years, And to see such a job almost moves me to tears! Mister Brown, I'm amazed You should be so gone crazed As to put up a bird In that posture absurd! To look at that owl really brings on a dizziness; The man who stuffed him don't half know his business!" And the barber kept on shaving. "Examine those eyes. I'm filled with surprise The Ballad of Imitation 1883 Taxidermists should pass Off on you such poor glass; Do take that bird down; Have him stuffed again, Brown!" And the barber kept on shaving. "With some sawdust and bark Stuck up there so stiff like a side of coarse leather. Just then, with a wink and a sly normal lurch, James. Thomas Fields [1816-1881] THE BALLAD OF IMITATION C'est imiter quelqu'un que de planter des choux.-ALFRED DE MUSSET If they hint, O Musician, the piece that you played Is naught but a copy of Chopin or Spohr; That the ballad you sing is but merely "conveyed" From the stock of the Arnes and the Purcells of yore; That there's nothing, in short, in the words or the score, That is not as out-worn as the "Wandering Jew"; Make answer-Beethoven could scarcely do more— That the man who plants cabbages imitates, too! If they tell you, Sir Artist, your light and your shade And you too, my Poet, be never dismayed If they whisper your Epic-"Sir Eperon d'Or"— Is nothing but Tennyson thinly arrayed In a tissue that's taken from Morris's store; That no one, in fact, but a child could ignore POSTCRIPTUM.-And you, whom we all so adore, THE CONUNDRUM OF THE WORKSHOPS WHEN the flush of a new-born sun fell first on Eden's green and gold, Our father Adam sat under the Tree and scratched with a stick in the mould; And the first rude sketch that the world had seen was joy to his mighty heart, Till the Devil whispered behind the leaves: "It's pretty, but is it Art?" Wherefore he called to his wife, and fled to fashion his work anew The first of his race who cared a fig for the first, most dread review; The Conundrum of the Workshops 1885 And he left his lore to the use of his sons-and that was a glorious gain When the Devil chuckled: "Is it Art?" in the ear of the branded Cain. They builded a tower to shiver the sky and wrench the stars apart, Till the Devil grunted behind the bricks: "It's striking, but is it Art?" The stone was dropped at the quarry-side and the idle derrick swung, While each man talked of the aims of Art, and each in an alien tongue. They fought and they talked in the North and the South, they talked and they fought in the West, Till the waters rose on the jabbering land, and the poor Red Clay had rest Had rest till the dank, blank-canvas dawn when the dove was preened to start, And the Devil bubbled below the keel: "It's human, but is it Art?" The tale is as old as the Eden Tree-and new as the newcut tooth For each man knows ere his lip-thatch grows he is master of Art and Truth; And each man hears as the twilight nears, to the beat of his dying heart, The Devil drum on the darkened pane: "You did it, but was it Art?" We have learned to whittle the Eden Tree to the shape of a surplice-peg, We have learned to bottle our parents twain in the yolk of an addled egg, We know that the tail must wag the dog, as the horse is drawn by the cart; But the Devil whoops, as he whooped of old: "It's clever, but is it Art?" When the flicker of London sun falls faint on the Clubroom's green and gold, The sons of Adam sit them down and scratch with their pens in the mould They scratch with their pens in the mould of their graves, and the ink and the anguish start, For the Devil mutters behind the leaves: "It's pretty, but is it Art?" Now, if we could win to the Eden Tree where the Four Great Rivers flow, And the Wreath of Eve is red on the turf as she left it long ago, And if we could come when the sentry slept, and softly scurry through, By the favor of God we might know as much as our father Adam knew. Rudyard Kipling [1865 THE V-A-S-E FROM the madding crowd they stand apart, And none might tell from sight alone The Gotham Million fair to see, The Boston Mind of azure hue, For all loved Art in a seemly way, Long they worshipped; but no one broke The Western one from the nameless place, |