The Fairy Godmother-in-law — Story, Setting & Ideas

he thought him all her Fancy Painted, And this was not surprising since They were not very Well Acquainted. While he, not dreaming where she got Glass slippers, counted on a _Dot_.

The Prince was Brave, Industrious, Wise: Brave in bright Silks and Satins gay, Wise in the Lore of Ladies’ Eyes, And most Industrious--at Play; A Leader, too--in Fashion’s Set; And Deep--that is to say, in Debt.

Who was the Somebody of Note? (I never could remember names) Was it Mark Twain or Mr. Choate Or Mrs. Ward or Henry James That penn’d those words of Wise Import, “Who weds in haste repents--in court”?

But let us not Anticipate. The Princess wore a Plain Gold Frock; No Fairy Dress to spoil the fête By vanishing at Twelve o’clock. This time no Spell her pleasure blighted-- _Her god-mamma was not invited_.

Not that she really meant to flout Her Benefactress; but you see She had not told the Prince about Her Fairy Godmother, lest he Might change his mind if he foresaw A Fairy God-mamma-in-law.

A Fairy may be Good or Ill, A Godmother Morose or Gay; A Mother-in-law, say what you will, Is not immortal any way. But wouldn’t it a Bridegroom stun To think of all three rolled in one?

All day the envelope she scann’d. But though her royal name it bore, ’Twas in an Unfamiliar Hand. The Postmark puzzled her still more. The Princess could not understand Who’d write to her from----

She turned it Left, she turned it Right, She pinched it, shook it to and fro, She held it up against the Light, And topsy-turvy wise--but no, It still continued to preserve Its air of Self-contained Reserve.

One day the Princess in a Pet, It was her Last, her only hope, Summoned her Trusty Cabinet, To Sit upon the Envelope, And at no matter what expense, To end her Terrible Suspense.

But all their Learnéd Consultations Ended in Nought, for what avail @Mere Man’s@ Unerring Calculations Where WOMAN’S Intuitions fail? Their Weighty Brains refused to cope With that Unyielding Envelope.

She put the matter in the Hands Of the Police; she went to see Astrologers from Foreign Lands And experts in Chirography; And offered Large Rewards to all Who furnished Clues, however small.

But no one came for the Reward, Nor would the Envelope betray The Secret in its bosom stored, When by the Merest Chance one day She overheard a Child, who cried, “_If it were mine, I’d look inside_.”

Tossing the Tot a Thousand Pounds, The Princess to her Chamber sped; Her Joy and Rapture knew no bounds; She tore the Envelope and read

A note from god-mamma, to say, _She might expect her any day_.

One day as Cinderella ate Her Simple Lunch of sixteen courses, A Golden Coach drove up in state, Drawn by a team of Mouse-Grey horses, And on the carriage door were scrolled The Letters F. G. M., in gold.

The Princess dropped a Jelly Roll, Which tipped with Pink her Crystal Shoe, And cried, “O my prophetic soul! _My God_-mamma! What shall I do?” Then, Ladylike, she cut the knot By simply fainting on the spot.

Strong Fairy Salts soon brought her to. She looked up in a startled way. “Why, God-mamma--can that be you? How sweet! I _hope_ you’ve come to stay. The Prince will simply be enchanted.” “Your Wish,” quoth God-mamma, “is granted.”

True to her word, the Fairy soon Was quite at home. The royal Attic She turned into a Grand Saloon, Where with her cats she reigned ecstatic. “Henceforth,” said she, “I’ll live at leisure, And only work my Spells for pleasure.”

She had a Sense of Humor dry, She loved her Little Joke--and tho’ None of her Tricks were prompted by A spiteful heart or love of show, To love one’s Joke does not, it’s true, Imply that Others love it too.

She had a disconcerting way, When Argument became a bore, Of saying what she had to say And disappearing through the Floor, A joke that never failed to cause A weird, if not side-splitting, Pause.

At meals, if there appeared a dish God-mamma did not find appealing, She’d wave her wand, and Fowl or Fish Would promptly vanish thro’ the ceiling, And in its place would be _Fried Mole_ Or _Crocodile en casserole_.

One day some Ladies of the Court Performed a Play which bored her so, She up and cried, “That’s not my sort!” And changed it to a Ballet show. A Tactless Joke, which caused, of course, Much talk--and more than one Divorce.

But nothing gave her such delight, Or keener Sense of Humor showed, Than when the Prince came home at night; She’d change his door-key to a Toad, And laugh to see it hop about, Or turn the Key-Hole inside out.

Once, weary of her Pesterings, The Prince apostrophized a bird, Exclaiming, “Would I too had wings!” It chanced the Fairy overheard, And, with the very best intentions, Granted him wings of Large Dimensions.

Now wings (as any Naturalist Will tell you) are but variations Of arms, and cannot co-exist With such-like Brachial Formations. Accordingly, he lost his arms, Which handicaps a Prince’s charms.

To his embarrassment and woe, He had to be both dressed and fed And brushed and bathed and put--but no, That he was spared. His Wings when spread Were Forty Feet from side to side; Bed was a luxury denied.

He soon repented of his Whim. With wings like windmill sails, of course, No room was big enough for him. So all night long, in Chill Remorse, He perched upon the roof. At dawn The spell was happily withdrawn.

About this time the Princess planned A grand Subscription Ball, to aid The Starving Shepherds of the land. The Prince, when told the shepherds’ trade Included Shepherdesses too, Subscribed a Thumping I. O. U.

Upon the evening of the ball, It chanced that God-mamma-in-law, Flitting about the Palace Hall, Passed by the Prince’s Suite, and saw His gladsome Evening Robes outspread In neat array upon the bed.

She eyed them sadly. Here in places The silken pile was wearing thin; And here were stains and here were traces Of where the Moth had broken in. “Aha! Aha! it’s plain to see This is a little job for me!

“I’ll make him a new suit,” said she, “A brave new suit without a flaw. I’d like to know what Home would be Without a God-mamma-in-law.” And in its place upon the bed A Fairy Substitute she spread.

All unobserved, she slipped away, Delighted with her Little Game, And, seeking some new trick to play, To Cinderella’s closet came. Where for her golden robe of state She left a Fairy Duplicate.

Dressed for the ball, they drove in State, Looking superlatively swell; God-mamma pleaded _mal de tête_ And from her window waved farewell. Her voice rose o’er the people’s cheers, “_Be back at twelve o’clock my dears!_”

Before the splendors of the Ball The Boldest Metaphor grows tame; Superlatives abjectly crawl Back to their lexicon in shame, And Synonyms in shrieking chorus Take refuge in the deep Thesaurus.

But language has its Pioneers, Who seek Fresh Words and Postures new, Slang rushes in where Syntax fears To tread--so I for Ade halloo, And say (with George’s kind permission) It was “_A Heated Proposition_.”

The Princess never dreamed her frock Of gold was wrought by fairy power. And set, like an alarming Clock, _To go off_ at the midnight hour. Her childish laugh rang with delight: “_Thank God_-mamma’s not here to-night.”

Prince Charming looked his very best To--I mean at--the Ladies Fair; No dread foreboding stirred his breast; No Writing on the Wall was there To Tell him of the Awful Shock Awaiting him at Twelve O’clock.

Again (see chapter on _The Ball_) The Boldest Metaphor grows tame; Superlatives abjectly crawl Back to their lexicon in shame, And Synonyms in shrieking chorus Take refuge in the deep Thesaurus.

But every cloud that bars the sun They say with silverwear is lined; And tho’ they felt they were Undone, Their Highnesses were cheered to find At midnight when their Robes took wings, They kept their--well, their Other Things.

Perchance, Dear Reader, you have noted In that Department which to Trade is By Monthly Magazines devoted, The Pleasant Gentlemen and Ladies Whose Union Suits our souls bewitch-- The Simple Flannels of the Rich.

Even arrayed as one of these, In Homespun stood the Royal Twain, While people cried, on bended knees, “Long live their Majesties! who deign Thus by example to Restore Our Woolen Industry of Yore!”

Thro’ all the Land the Tidings sped From Door to Door, from Wife to Wife, Thro’ all the Land the Fashion spread For Woolen and the Simple Life. New looms sprang up on every hand And shepherds prospered in the land.

Poor God-mamma, ’twas her last caper; One night to throw some Light about She changed herself into a Taper, And Cinderella blew her out. The Princess then divorced the Prince, And Both lived Happy Ever Since.

THE CHARM THAT FAILED

The Hero of my tale Was a serpent--don’t turn pale! My snake was not the “serpent” of Theology With an apple up his sleeve To tempt some child of Eve, Nor was he versed in deadly Toxicology. No, his fangs were free from guile, And he had a roomy smile. There was no more harmless snake in all Zoology. But since no creature known Is perfect, I will own He had one failing--vanity, alas! innate. He was also fond of sport, Though not a cruel sort: His aim was more to charm than to assassinate. He was often heard to say, When feeling rather gay, “I’d like to see the Bird I cannot fascinate!”

_And one day Some laughter-loving Fay His boasting heard, And sent a Bird._

It was sitting, stuffed and stiff on A thing of straw and chiffon, Ribbands and lace and jet and such like finery, By a milliner begotten And some careless maid forgotten, In stuffed and lonely splendor in the Vinery, When with expectant eye Mr. Serpent, by and by, Strolled forth in search of game from out the Pinery.

_And the Bird Never stirred Or said a word._

“Aha!” said Mr. Snake, “Unless I much mistake, Here’s a charming subject for a Trance Hypnotic; Soon I’ll have her in my toils!” And with mysterious coils He advanced with air complacent and despotic. Then he rose up, and let fly A glance from out his eye, And watched for the effect of his narcotic.

_And the Bird Never stirred Or said a word._

Said Mr. Snake, “My spell Seems to work extremely well.” And straightway with Majestic Pride he puffed, But when an hour had pass’d, And still the Bird stood fast, I must confess he felt a trifle huff’d. “There’s something wrong,” said he, “With the Bird--or else with me.” How should he know the wretched thing was stuffed?

_That Bird, Who never stirred Or said a word._

Mr. Snake was sorely troubled, And his efforts he redoubled, And he balanced on the tip end of his tail, Swaying to and fro the while Like a pendulum--a style That hitherto he’d never known to fail. But not a word she uttered, And not a feather fluttered As he plied his mystic Art without avail.

“Confound the bird!” he said, And he stood upon his head And waved his long mysterious tail in air, And he focussed all the rays Of his esoteric gaze Into one cold and petrifying glare. But the Deadly Glance fell wide; He might as well have tried To hypnotize a table or a chair--

_As that Bird, Who never stirred Or said a word._

“That settles it!” he cried. “I will not be defied!” And he coiled himself to spring--oh, rash proceeding! Like an arrow from a bow He sprang--how should he know The Doom to which he was so swiftly speeding? Next moment he lay dead, With a Hat Pin through his head, Whereat, with most commendable good-breeding--

_The Bird Never stirred Or said a word._

The Sun appeared so smug and bright, One day, that I made bold To ask him what he did each night With all his surplus gold.

He flushed uncomfortably red, And would not meet my eye. “I travel round the world,” he said, “And travelling rates are high.”

With frigid glance I pierced him through. He squirmed and changed his tune. Said he: “I will be frank with you: I lend it to the Moon.

“Poor thing! You know she’s growing old And hasn’t any folk. She suffers terribly from cold, And half the time she’s broke.”

That evening on the beach I lay Behind a lonely dune, And as she rose above the bay I buttonholed the Moon.

“Tell me about that gold,” said I. I saw her features fall. “You see, it’s useless to deny; The Sun has told me all.”

“Sir!” she exclaimed, “how _can_ you try An honest Moon this way? As for the gold, I put it by Against a rainy day.”

I smiled and shook my head. “All right, If you _must_ know,” said she, “I change it into silver bright Wherewith to tip the Sea.

“He is so faithful and so good, A most deserving case; If he should leave, I fear it would Be hard to fill his place.”

When asked if they accepted tips, The waves became so rough; I thought of those at sea in ships, And felt I’d said enough.

For if one virtue I have learned, ’Tis _tact_; so I forbore To press the matter, though I burned To ask one question more.

I hate a scene, and do not wish To be mixed up in gales, But, oh, I longed to ask the Fish Whence came their silver scales!

HOW THE LION BECAME KING

Once in the hazy days of Yore (I cannot very well be more Explicit, since it was before Dates were invented). Once on a time, as I began To say, the Lion formed a plan To undermine the rule of Man, Which he resented.

In answer to the Lion’s call, His fellow-creatures, great and small, From earth and air came one and all In Trepidation. He then delivered a discourse, And proved with eloquence and force Man was their one and only source Of Tribulation.

“What is he--taken at his best? A mere pretence! Not even dressed, If we his puny form divest Of spoil he’s looted. The fact that we can far excel His boasted Strength and Speed, as well As Hearing, Sight, and Taste and Smell, Is undisputed.

“I am not boasting when I own for Strength I’d back my claws alone Against his battle-axe of stone; While, as to Vision, ’Tis nothing more than idle talk To mention Man beside the Hawk-- The swift Horse, too, his clumsy walk Views with derision.

“Only Man’s Ignorance, I’m bound To say, could possibly confound The Scent and Hearing of the Hound With his dull powers; As well his Taste, that gluts on fare Like half-burnt Antelope and Bear, With the fastidious Bee compare, That sips the flowers.

“And yet,” the Lion said, “though we Outshine Man to the last degree Collectively, none holds as he The Combination.” In short, the moral of his theme Was this: If Beasts would reign supreme Their only practicable scheme Was Federation.

And so, in view of Public Need, The Hawk, Hound, Bee, and Horse agreed To pool their Sight, Scent, Taste, and Speed; And in due season They made, _pro tem._, the Lion King, Intrusting him with everything Upon condition he would bring Proud Man to reason.

The crafty Lion then proposed To send an Embassy composed Of those same four. As none opposed, They started straightway, And, coming to Man’s portals wide, They entered, but no trace espied Of Man, until (from the outside) He closed the gateway.

And there he kept them till they swore To be his servants evermore, And work his will, and bow before His rod of iron: The Dog to watch, the Hawk to kill, The Horse to carry and to till, The Bee with sweets his jars to fill. All save the Lion--

The Lion stayed at home--and purred, And kept thenceforth the crown conferred _Pro tem._, and nothing more was heard About Conditions. So ends my tale. Perchance it brings Some light to bear on certain things-- Such as the Origin of Kings, And Politicians.

One time there lived (that is to say, If half a crust of bread a day And sleeping on a bed of hay May so be rated) A Gentle Youth who tuned his lay To all the Metres of the day, But was not, I regret to say, Appreciated.

In Market-place or Public Way He read his ode or sang his lay, As was the custom of the day, But none suggested A Laurel Wreath or Crown of Bay: Instead, one morn, to his dismay, While spouting forth a Tragic Play, He was arrested.

In Irons he was led away, And, by a Justice stern and gray, For blocking up the Public Way He was indicted. Then, since he had nowith to pay The Fine (a trifle anyway), To leave the town without delay He was invited.

There was no choice but to obey-- He left the town at break of day, Yet still his heart was brave and gay; Fate could not queer him. For was it not the month of May, Were there not flowers beside the way, And little lambs to sport and play, And birds to cheer him?

He journeyed on for many a day; The Peasants gave him Curds and Whey; For aught I know the Fairies may Some Food have found him. At night he slept beneath a Bay Or Laurel Tree, and, I dare say, Dreamed he was Laureate, and they Were twined around him.

Indeed, his only trouble lay In this, that tho’ his spirits gay And gentle Heart and winning way Charmed and delighted All whom he met, yet, strange to say, To hear his verses none would stay-- Even the Peasants ran away When he recited.

But he was not the sort that say, “Oh, woe is mine--alack-a-day!” He lived for Hope, and in some way Was bound to find it. “What matter! Let them go,” he’d say; “Each to his taste--henceforth I’ll play And sing to Birds alone, for they Don’t seem to mind it.”

And so he journeyed many a day, Till now at last his darkening way Lies thro’ a forest dim and gray; Yet, nothing daunted, Though hoary branches bar the way, And twisted roots his steps betray, And ghostly voices seem to say The place is haunted.

Singing a Carol blithe and gay, He presses on, nor does he stay, Until at last the light of day His sight surprises. And now a little winding way Leads, through a meadow pink with May, To where, not half a mile away, A Palace rises.

He wandered on, his thoughts astray, Framing a little Roundelay And weaving garlands of the May (For whom not guessing), Until before him suddenly There loomed a gateway grim and gray, Whose dark doors yielded to the sway Of his light pressing.

And lo! a garden gleaming, gay With flowers in dazzling array, And fountains flashing silver spray, And bowers shady; And on an emerald bank there lay A creature fairer than the day, Yet sadder than a moonlight ray-- A wondrous lady.

Abashed the Poet turned away, When a low voice entreated, “Stay! Read me that little Roundelay I heard you singing.” It was as though upon him lay A spell that forced him to obey, And he recited it straightway In voice clear ringing.

A dreamy, languid, far-away Expression dims her eyes as they, Like violets at droop of day, Are closing--closing. The Poet ends his Roundelay, And turns to hear what she may say, And finds to his complete dismay The Princess dozing.

Then rose a cry: “She sleeps! Hurray! The Princess sleeps! Oh, joyful day! The spell is broken--Rise, I pray, Oh, sweet song-maker.” ’Twas the King spoke, “Arise, I pray: I make you Laureate this day; My daughter’s hand, too, by the way, Is yours--don’t wake her.”

Scene--_On Manhattan Island_. _Time--To-day. Hour--Ten-thirty. Persons of the play_:

SIBYL. _A dream of beauty, half-awake, In filmy disarray--about to take Her morning tub. In speech with her the while Is_ ROBERT. _He is dressed in riding style._