By L. Frank Baum
Originally published in Songs of Spring, 1916.
There’s discord in Music Land; why, do you know?
All on account of Miss Violin’s beau.
Miss Clarinet frets, and Miss Banjo, to boot,
While Banning’s cornet has gone off on a toot.
They’d come to rehearse—’twas an Uplift affair;
The orchestra places were all of them there:
Good old Frankel’s cello, high-strung Mrs. Harp,
Bill’s flute—a bright fellow, but often too sharp.
Sweet Miss Violin, and Viola, her chum,
Our Herman’s trombone, light-headed Miss Drum,
Her father, Bass Drum, who stumps with a stick,
And Miss Tambourine, with her merry click-click.
Their keepers had gone—’twas an awful mistake
To stand at the bar and indulge in a shake,
Forgetting that up in the Blue Room, just now,
Their quarrelsome instruments might have a row.
That high-toned assemblage—a sensitive lot—
Had all been keyed up to perform on the spot,
When Miss Violin, looking sharply around,
Discovered her beau was nowhere to be found.
Unstrung, broken-hearted, she leaned on the wall,
While great consternation arose in the hall.
“Oh, oh, for a Beau,” in a high tremolo
Thrilled Miss Piccolo, who had ne’er had a beau.
Roared Harry’s Bass Viol: “Oh, fiddlesticks, say,
I’m sure Mrs. Harp has enticed it away.”
“You’re wrong,” cried the Harp; “I really don’t see
Why somebody always is picking on me.”
“That Bass is quite cracked,” said Viola. “We know
She’d scrape an acquaintce with any old beau;
While Hays Rice’s fiddle, by common report,
Accomplishes pieces of very low sort.”
And so the dispute rose higher and higher
Till Ira’s Flute piped, “Mrs. Harp, you’re a lyre.”
But just at this time, e’er the scrap could begin,
The door opened wide and our Robbie walked in.
“Hush,” cried the Director, with chastening frown;
“You’re all out of tune and had better tone down.
Be still, Miss Viola; don’t nag the big Bass,
And I will look into Miss Violin’s case.”
Deep silence ensued; not another harsh word,
Nor one note of discord was then to be heard.
Robbie looked for a moment—one only—and lo,
Right there, in her case, lay Miss Violin’s beau.
All on account of Miss Violin’s beau.
Miss Clarinet frets, and Miss Banjo, to boot,
While Banning’s cornet has gone off on a toot.
They’d come to rehearse—’twas an Uplift affair;
The orchestra places were all of them there:
Good old Frankel’s cello, high-strung Mrs. Harp,
Bill’s flute—a bright fellow, but often too sharp.
Sweet Miss Violin, and Viola, her chum,
Our Herman’s trombone, light-headed Miss Drum,
Her father, Bass Drum, who stumps with a stick,
And Miss Tambourine, with her merry click-click.
Their keepers had gone—’twas an awful mistake
To stand at the bar and indulge in a shake,
Forgetting that up in the Blue Room, just now,
Their quarrelsome instruments might have a row.
That high-toned assemblage—a sensitive lot—
Had all been keyed up to perform on the spot,
When Miss Violin, looking sharply around,
Discovered her beau was nowhere to be found.
Unstrung, broken-hearted, she leaned on the wall,
While great consternation arose in the hall.
“Oh, oh, for a Beau,” in a high tremolo
Thrilled Miss Piccolo, who had ne’er had a beau.
Roared Harry’s Bass Viol: “Oh, fiddlesticks, say,
I’m sure Mrs. Harp has enticed it away.”
“You’re wrong,” cried the Harp; “I really don’t see
Why somebody always is picking on me.”
“That Bass is quite cracked,” said Viola. “We know
She’d scrape an acquaintce with any old beau;
While Hays Rice’s fiddle, by common report,
Accomplishes pieces of very low sort.”
And so the dispute rose higher and higher
Till Ira’s Flute piped, “Mrs. Harp, you’re a lyre.”
But just at this time, e’er the scrap could begin,
The door opened wide and our Robbie walked in.
“Hush,” cried the Director, with chastening frown;
“You’re all out of tune and had better tone down.
Be still, Miss Viola; don’t nag the big Bass,
And I will look into Miss Violin’s case.”
Deep silence ensued; not another harsh word,
Nor one note of discord was then to be heard.
Robbie looked for a moment—one only—and lo,
Right there, in her case, lay Miss Violin’s beau.
Originally published in the Philadelphia Public Ledger, September 15, 1918
Another Supposy Idea
Tremendous Wise were sitting
Beneath a tree, discussing matters
Interesting and fitting!
“I’ve noticed, among other things,”
Thus spoke up Mr. Wise,
“A tendency among the young
To overexercise!
“In truth, it seems, Your Majesty,
That, in Supposyville,
Only when fast asleep at night
Are lads and lassies still.
“While, on the other hand,
The grown-ups underexercise.
Now there’s a way to even up
These matters, I surmise!”
“Quite right!” the King reluctantly
Rose from his comfy chair.
“Get up, you lazy rogue!” he laughed.
“We are a guilty pair!”
Sir Solomon sprang to his feet
And, chuckling, he proceeds,
To just explain and make quite plain
Supposy-people’s needs.
“I say we set an hour a day
For children to keep still.
And have the grown folks out
To do a bracing set-up drill!”
“Ha, hoh!” the good King
Nearly bent himself in two. “Ha, hoh!
Sir Solomon, you are the
Wisest queer old chap I know!”
He spluttered, “That’s a hopping plan;
’Twill go into effect
Tomorrow, and will cause a lot
Of comment—I expect!
“And I suggest that while
The young folks sit quite still they do
Some useful thing—pare ’taters, say—
To help the housework through!”
So that’s how things are evened up
In old Supposyville,
Sweethearts—while grown folks exercise
The little folks keep still.
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