page 23

Elegy on the Letter-Rack

Sob, ye chill winds that stir Parnassus' trees
And keep the muses in with shaking knees,
Let fall your tear-drops down each muse's back,
T' evoke her long-drawn howl;
Then dry them nicely with a decent towel,
And beg their sorrows for the letter-rack.

There was a time long past—now labeled
Then, A time when modest maids and gallant men
Gathered in equal numbers round the rack,
Drew out their notes—and stood politely back.
No nervous undergrad, however small,
Stood disconcerted far across the hall,
Desiring, with the passion of despair,
The little letter which he knew was there.

Put the late advent of the Woman's day
Has spirited those joyful times away.
The clock now strikes, and like a winter squall,
A female host descends upon the hall.
Around the rack they take their martial stand,
Like soldiers, and deploy on either hand,
Until extended far as eye can see,
A mass of women—ranged immovably.
And should one man attempt an entrance there,
Their solid phalanx bids that man beware!

What then avails the small embarrassed cough
Of the lone male approaching blushingly?
Should he but stammer weakly, "Pardon me,"
His head is bitten off;
And the one thing he gave his life to see—
His draper's bill for clothing ready made—
Remains unwept, unhonoured, and unpaid.

And, more to keep the timorous man away,
No peaceful silence rules their deep array,
But a vast, high-toned roar pervades that clime.
Much like the noise of fowls at feeding time.
While with their tumult all the hall is full.
Their several letters from the rack they pull;
And men, ejected from their rightful places,
Have nought to pull but long, despairing faces.

Far from me be it to incite to wrath,
Or call mankind to tread a warlike path,
Yet, should a man grow careless of his right,
The nasty thing will disappear from sight.
Should not the best be only for the betters?
Adam, not Eve, unsealed the family letters.

page 24

Then sob, ye winds that haunt Parnassus' height
And keep the muses coughing half the night.
Drop your chaste tears, ye virgins of the grove,
And send a telegram to highest Jove.
Bear him the woful tale of man's disgrace:
The gods at least kept woman in her place.
Tell everything; he's too benign to doubt it;
And ask him what he means to do about it.

—D.J.D.