



Produced by Bryan Ness, Greg Bergquist and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)







  ONYX SERIES




  THE RE-ECHO CLUB


  By
  CAROLYN WELLS


  NEW YORK
  FRANKLIN BIGELOW CORPORATION
  THE MORNINGSIDE PRESS
  PUBLISHERS




  Copyright, 1913, by
  FRANKLIN BIGELOW CORPORATION


ONYX SERIES




THE RE-ECHO CLUB




THE RE-ECHO CLUB

DIVERSIONS OF THE RE-ECHO CLUB


A recent discovery has brought to light the long-hidden papers of the
Re-Echo Club. This is a great find, and all lovers of masterpieces of
the world's best literature will rejoice with us that we are enabled to
publish herewith a few of these gems of great minds. Little is known of
the locale or clientele of this club, but it was doubtless a successor
of the famous Echo Club of Boston memory, for, like that erudite body,
it takes pleasure in trying to better what is done. On the occasion of
the meeting of which the following gems of poesy are the result, the
several members of the club engaged to write up the well-known tradition
of the Purple Cow in more elaborate form than the quatrain made famous
by Mr. Gelett Burgess:

  "I never saw a Purple Cow,
    I never hope to see one;
  But I can tell you, anyhow,
    I'd rather see than be one."

The first attempt here cited is the production of Mr. John Milton:

  Hence, vain, deluding cows.
    The herd of folly, without color bright,
    How little you delight,
  Or fill the Poet's mind, or songs arouse!
  But, hail! thou goddess gay of feature!
  Hail! divinest purple creature!
  Oh, Cow, thy visage is too bright
  To hit the sense of human sight.
  And though I'd like, just once, to see thee,
  I never, never, never'd be thee!


MR. P. BYSSHE SHELLEY:

          Hail to thee, blithe spirit!
            Cow thou never wert;
          But in life to cheer it
            Playest thy full part
  In purple lines of unpremeditated art.

          The pale purple color
            Melts around thy sight
          Like a star, but duller,
            In the broad daylight.
  I'd see thee, but I would not be thee if I might.

          We look before and after
            At cattle as they browse;
          Our most hearty laughter
            Something sad must rouse.
  Our sweetest songs are those that tell of Purple Cows.


MR. W. WORDSWORTH:

  She dwelt among the untrodden ways
   Beside the springs of Dee;
  A Cow whom there were few to praise
   And very few to see.
  A violet by a mossy stone
    Greeting the smiling East
  Is not so purple, I must own,
    As that erratic beast.
  She lived unknown, that Cow, and so
    I never chanced to see;
  But if I had to be one, oh,
    The difference to me!


MR. T. GRAY:

  The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
    The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea;
  I watched them slowly wend their weary way,
    But, ah, a Purple Cow I did not see.

  Full many a cow of purplest ray serene
    Is haply grazing where I may not see;
  Full many a donkey writes of her, I ween,
    But neither of these creatures would I be.


MR. J. W. RILEY:

  There, little Cow, don't cry!
    You are brindle and brown, I know.
        And with wild, glad hues
        Of reds and blues,
    You never will gleam and glow.
  But though not pleasing to the eye,
  There, little Cow, don't cry, don't cry.


LORD A. TENNYSON:

  Ask me no more. A cow I fain would see
    Of purple tint, like to a sun-soaked grape--
    Of purple tint, like royal velvet cape--
  But such a creature I would never be--
            Ask me no more.


MR. R. BROWNING:

        All that I know
          Of a certain Cow
        Is it can throw,
          Somewhere, somehow,
        Now a dart of red,
          Now a dart of blue
        (That makes purple, 'tis said).
          I would fain see, too,
  This Cow that darkles the red and the blue!


MR. J. KEATS:

  A cow of purple is a joy forever.
  Its loveliness increases. I have never
  Seen this phenomenon. Yet ever keep
  A brave lookout; lest I should be asleep
  When she comes by. For, though I would not be one,
  I've oft imagined 'twould be joy to see one.


MR. D.G. ROSSETTI:

  The Purple Cow strayed in the glade;
    (Oh, my soul! but the milk is blue!)
  She strayed and strayed and strayed and strayed
    (And I wail and I cry Wa-hoo!)

  I've never seen her--nay, not I;
    (Oh, my soul! but the milk is blue!)
  Yet were I that Cow I should want to die.
    (And I wail and I cry Wa-hoo!)
    But in vain my tears I strew.


MR. T.B. ALDRICH:

  Somewhere in some faked nature place,
    In Wonderland, in Nonsense Land,
  Two darkling shapes met face to face,
    And bade each other stand.

  "And who are you?" said each to each;
    "Tell me your title, anyhow."
  One said, "I am the Papal Bull,"
    "And I the Purple Cow."


MR. E. ALLAN POE:

      Open then I flung a shutter,
      And, with many a flirt and flutter,
  In there stepped a Purple Cow which gayly tripped around my floor.
      Not the least obeisance made she,
      Not a moment stopped or stayed she,
  But with mien of chorus lady perched herself above my door.
  On a dusty bust of Dante perched and sat above my door.

      And that Purple Cow unflitting
      Still is sitting--still is sitting
  On that dusty bust of Dante just above my chamber door,
      And her horns have all the seeming
      Of a demon's that is screaming,
      And the arc-light o'er her streaming
  Casts her shadow on the floor.
  And my soul from out that pool of Purple Shadow on the floor
  Shall be lifted Nevermore!


MR. H. LONGFELLOW:

  The day is done, and the darkness
    Falls from the wing of night
  As ballast is wafted downward
    From an air-ship in its flight.

  I dream of a purple creature
    Which is not as kine are now;
  And resembles cattle only
    As Cowper resembles a cow.

  Such cows have power to quiet
    Our restless thoughts and rude;
  They come like the Benedictine
    That follows after food.


MR. A. SWINBURNE:

  Oh, Cow of rare rapturous vision,
    Oh, purple, impalpable Cow,
  Do you browse in a Dream Field Elysian,
    Are you purpling pleasantly now?
  By the side of wan waves do you languish?
    Or in the lithe lush of the grove?
  While vainly I search in my anguish,
    O Bovine of mauve!

  Despair in my bosom is sighing,
    Hope's star has sunk sadly to rest;
  Though cows of rare sorts I am buying,
    Not one breathes a balm to my breast.
  Oh, rapturous rose-crowned occasion,
    When I such a glory might see!
  But a cow of a purple persuasion
    I never would be.


MR. F.D. SHERMAN:

  I'd love to see
    A Purple Cow,
  Oh, Goodness me!
  I'd love to see
  But not to be
    One. Anyhow,
  I'd love to see
    A Purple Cow.


MR. B. CARMAN:

  Now the joys of the road are chiefly these,
  A Purple Cow that no one sees,
  A grove of green and a sky of blue,
  And never a hope that cow to view.
  But a firm conviction deep in me
  That cow I would rather be than see.
  Though, alack-a-day, there be times enow,
  When I see pink snakes and a Purple Cow.


MR. H.C. BUNNER:

  Oh, what's the way to Arcady,
    Where all the cows are purple?
  Ah, woe is me! I never hope
  On such a sight my eyes to ope;
  But, as I sing in merry glee
  Along the road to Arcady,
  Perchance full soon I may espy
  A Purple Cow come dancing by.
    Heigho! I then shall see one.
  Her horns bedecked with ribbons gay,
  And garlanded with rosy may,--
    A tricksy sight. Still I must say
    I'd rather see than be one.


MR. R.L. STEVENSON:

  In winter I get up at night
  And hunt that cow by lantern light;
  In summer quite the other way,
  I seek a Purple Cow by day.
  And does it not seem strange to you,
  I can't find cows of purple hue?
  But I can tell you, anyhow,
  I'm glad I'm not a Purple Cow.


MR. R. KIPLING:

  In the old ten-acre pasture,
    Lookin' eastward toward a tree,
  There's a Purple Cow a-settin'
  And I know she thinks of me.
  For the wind is in the gum-tree,
    And the hay is in the mow,
  And the cow-bells are a-calling
    "Come and see a Purple Cow!"

    But I am not going now,
    Not at present, anyhow,
  For I am not fond of purple, and
    I can't abide a cow;
  No, I shall not go to-day,
  Where the Purple Cattle play,
  Though I think I'd rather see one
    Than to be one, anyhow.


MR. O. HERFORD:

  Children, observe the Purple Cow,
  You cannot see her, anyhow;
  And, little ones, you need not hope
  Your eyes will e'er attain such scope.
  But if you ever have a choice
  To be, or see, lift up your voice
  And choose to see. For surely you
  Don't want to browse around and moo.


MR. S. CRANE:

  Once a man said,
  I never saw a Purple Cow;
  Again he spoke,
  I never hope to see one.
  Then all the people said,
  How noble his humble-mindedness!
  How glorious his meek resignation!
  Now this is the strange part--
  The man has seen hundreds of purple cows,
  Ay, thousands,
  But the man was color blind,
  And the cows seemed to him to be a reddish brown.


MR. D.G. ROSSETTI:

(Second Attempt.)

  The blessed Purple Cow leaned out
    From a pasture lot at even
  One horn was sixteen inches long,
    The other just eleven.
  She had a ruminative face,
    And the teeth in her head were seven.
  She gazed and listened, then she said
    (Less sad of speech than queer),
  "Nobody seems to notice me,
    None knows that I am here.
  And no one wishes to be me!"
    She wept. (I heard a tear.)


MR. A.C. SWINBURNE:

(Second Attempt.)

  Only in dim, drowsy depths of a
    dream do I dare to delight
      in deliciously dreaming
  Cows there may be of a passionate
    purple,--cows of a violent
      violet-hue;
  Ne'er have I seen such a sight, I am
    certain it is but a demi-
      delirious dreaming--
  Ne'er may I happily harbor
    a hesitant hope in my
      heart that my dream
        may come true.
  Sad is my soul, and my senses
    are sobbing, so strong
      is my strenuous spirit
        to see one.
  Dolefully, drearily doomed
    to despair as warily,
      wearily watching I wait;
  Thoughts thickly thronging are thrilling
    and throbbing; to see is a
      glorious gain--but to be one!
  That were a darker and
    direfuller destiny, that
      were a fearfuller,
        frightfuller fate.




At the second meeting of the Re-Echo Club, some of whose proceedings
have already been chronicled in these pages, the question arose whether
the poet was at his best who gave to the world the classic poem about
The Little Girl:

      "There was a little girl
      And she had a little curl
  Right in the middle of her forehead.
      And when she was good,
      She was very, very good,
  And when she was bad she was horrid!"

Some members held that poets had at times risen to sublimer poetic
flights than this, while others contended that the clear-cut decision of
thought it expressed placed the poem above more elaborate works.

When those who criticised it were invited themselves to treat the same
theme in more worthy fashion, they willingly enough agreed, and the
results here subjoined were spread upon the minutes of the club.

With a lady-like air of reserve tempered by self-respect, Mrs. Felicia
Hemans presented her version:

  The Marcel waves dash'd high
    Where the puffs and frizzes crossed;
  And just above a roguish eye
    A little curl was tossed.

  And that little curl hung down
    O'er a brow like a holy saint;
  Her goodness was beyond renown,
    And yet--there was a taint.

  Ay, call it deadly sin,
    The temper that she had;
  But that Little Girl just gloried in
    Freedom to be real bad!

Robert Browning gave the subject much thought and responded at length:

  Who will may hear the poet's story told.
  His story? Who believes me shall behold
  The Little Girl, tricked out with ringolet,
  Or fringe, or pompadour, or what you will,
  Switch, bang, rat, puff--odzooks, man! I know not
  What women call the hanks o' hair they wear!
  But that same curl, beau-catcher, love-lock, frizz.
  (Perchance hot-ironed--perchance 'twas bandolined;
  Mayhap those rubber squirmers gave it shape--
  I wot not.) But that corkscrew of a curl
  Hung plumb, true, straight, accurate, at mid-brow,
  Nor swerved a hair's breadth to the right or left.
  Aught of her other tresses none may know.
  Now go we straitly on. And undertake
  To sound the humor of the Little Girl.
  Ha! what's the note? Hark here. When she was good,
  She was seraphic; hypersuperfine.
  So good she made the saints seem scalawags;
  An angel child; a paramaragon.
  Halt! Turn! When she elected to be bad,
  Black fails to paint the depths of ignomin,
  The fearsome sins, the crimes unspeakable,
  The deep abysses of her evilment.
  Hist! Tell 't wi' bated breath! One day she let
  A rosy tongue-tip from red lips peep forth!
  Can viciousness cap that? Horrid's the word.
  Yet there she is. There is that Little Girl,
  Her goodness and her badness, side by side,
  Like bacon, streak o' fat and streak o' lean.
  Ah, Fatalist, she must be ever so.

Mr. E.A. Poe declared that he wrote his lines without any trouble at
all, as he used to know the Little Girl personally:

  'Twas not very many years ago,
    At Seahurst-By-The-Sea,
  A little girl had a little curl--
    Her name was Annabel Lee.
  And right in the middle of Annabel's brow
    That curl would always be.

  She was so good, oh, she was so good
    At Seahurst-By-The-Sea!
  She was good with a goodness more than good,
    Was beautiful Annabel Lee,
  With such goodness the winged seraphs of heaven
    Coveted her of me.
  But her badness was stronger by far than the good,
    Like many far older than she,
    Like many far wiser than she;
  And neither the angels in heaven above
    Nor the demons down under the sea
  Can ever dissever the good from the bad
    In the soul of Annabel Lee,
    The beautiful Annabel Lee.

Then Mr. Stevenson went out into his own garden and plucked this:

  In winter, I go up at night
  And curl that curl by candle-light;
  In summer, quite the other way,
  I have to curl it twice a day.

  When I am good, I seem to be
  As good as peaches on the tree;
  But when I'm bad I've awful ways,
  I'm horrid, everybody says.

  And does it not seem hard to you,
  I have to choose between the two?
  When I'm not happy, good and glad,
  I have to be so awful bad!

Mr. Kipling took a real interest in the work and produced the following:

  "What is the gas-stove going for?"
    Asked Files-On-Parade.
  "To curl my hair, to curl my hair?"
    His Little Sister said.

  "What makes you curl so tight, so tight?"
    Asked Files-On-Parade.
  "I'm thinkin' 'twill be damp to-night,"
    His Little Sister said.

  "For you know that when I'm good, I'm just as good as I can be.
  And when I'm bad, there's nobody can be as bad as me.
  So I'm thinkin' I'll be very good to-night, because, you see,
  I'm thinkin' I'll be horrid in the morning."

Mr. Hood was in a reminiscent mood, so he looked backward:

  I remember, I remember,
    That curl I used to wear;
  It cost a dollar ninety-eight
    (It was the best of hair).
  It always stayed right in its place,
    It never went astray;
  But now, I sometimes wish the wind
    Had blown that curl away.

  I remember, I remember,
    How good I used to be;
  Why, St. Cecelia at her best
    Was not as good as me.
  I never tore my pinafore,
    Or got my slippers wet;
  I let my brother steal