IF WHISTLER HAVEN,
NEW HAVEN, CONN.

A RACE OF KINGS.

I am a Lord of the Northland,
The factor of Port au Tout;
I fear nor luck, nor a soused Canuck,
Nor the yammering loup-garou.

A brother o' mine in the homeland
Is vicar of old St. Paul's;
From the fat M.P. to the Carter's boy,
They kneel when the vicar's calls.

A brother o' mine in India
Is god to the countryside;
And Babus wriggle beneath his wrath
Wherever he may ride.

I rule o'er the lank free-trapper,
And his various, sundry wives.
I give him bread and booze and bed,
And save his kiddies' lives.

The vicar is plump and winsome,
And ready to don his wings;
He has taste divine at choosing wine;
He scribbles verse, and sings.

2

Must disclose their beauty, slender,
But etherially fair;
For I have the key, the tender
Vision
Image of your silver hair.

Lady, I am much beholden
To your locks' unwhispered lays,
Which
What, like ballads, dulcet, olden,
Have inspired me, all my days.

#

JANUARY NIGHTS.

Left Foot, Right Foot,
Both explorers bold;
When you creep in bed at night,
Wow, but ain't it cold!
Mr. Left then sallies forth,
To explore the frozen North.

Back comes Left Foot,
Crying, "Ouch, I'm froze!"
Cuddles underneath your legs,
Feeble wags his toes.
Then, out hastens Mr. Right
Bravely, through the chilly night.

Right Foot, Left Foot,
Swift the brothers go,
Toward the Foot-Board North Pole on,
On through sleet and snow;
On through bears, and ice, and storm.
Till--your--bed's--all--nice--and--warm!

Pub. in Woman's Home Companion, Jan. '07.

CROONING LULLABY.

Down in the wonderful realm of sleep,
Bye low, bye low,
The faeries their watch upon babies keep,
High low, high low.
Sail on, oh silvery sloop of sleep,
Over the drowsy dreamland deep,
Where spirits of childless women weep,
Sigh low, sigh low.

There is the cheeriest, dearest land,
Tra la, tra la,
Where magic castles and wonder woods stand,
La la, la la.
Cinderella is there at hand,
Back, the Killer of giants grand,
The piper pied, and his bonny band,
Tra, la, la,
Tra, la, la.

Rock cradle, drowsily,
Rock cradle, dreamily,
Sails o'er the summer sea the sandman dear to
thee

7

## THE GAS STOVE BEAST.

The Gas Stove really frightens me,
So very strange a beast is he.
It's rude at least, the way he stares
With red glass eyes, and glares and glares,
With all eight eyes at once, until
You can't expect me to be still.

My Ma says I'm a foolish boy,
That "Gas Stoves never will annoy
Unless one's naughty, they're so tamed,
But, if one's bad, they're shocked and shamed,
And glower sadly through the night,
But Gas Stoves never, never bite."

I'm sure my Ma is never wrong,
But why is that cord, thick and strong,
Fixed firmly to the chandelier,
Tied to the beast, if there's no fear?
The Gas Stove may be nice; but see
The way those red eyes glare at me!

Pub. Acc. by the Housekeeper.

## THE GOODSHIP "TEETER BOARD"

Her captain roared, "The 'Teeter Board'
is sailing; hurry up."
The mate cried, "Ho, cast off, we go,"
(Her mate was Snap, the pup).

"Creakety creak," the engines squeak,
Upon the "Teeter Board"
I came down thump, with a kerplump;
Then way up high I soared.

Although the breeze caused awful seas,
Which rocked us up and down
As we explored, yet the "Teeter Board"
Came safe to Supper Town.

Acc. by the Housekeeper.

A GILDED BEAKER,

Great was the wine of his song, like panting, ineffable seas,
Moving to passionate tears, and heating my heart with its lies.

Swayed with oppressive delight, I sought him and looked in his eyes;--

God how I shattered the cup of his song, when I tasted those lees!

Surging for panting, dashed down for shattered?

DECEMBER MAYING.

My love and I go Maying,
Though wan the winter skies.
Our garlands are decaying,
And, weather-weary, lies
Our Maypole to the blizzard's will,
But Love and I go Maying still.

My love and I went Maying,
On dewy morns of May,
As careless children playing
Through daisies, glad as they.
Snows scourge the graves those daisies fill,
Yet Love and I go Maying still.

My love and I went Maying,
On drowsy August noons,
And, weary with the haying,
Saw spiders spin their runes.
Their spun shrouds haunt that shady hill,
Though Love and I go Maying still.

My love and I went Maying,
Amid October vines;
The courtly moonlight paying
Rich tribute to rich wines.
The wines are drunk, the moon wanes chill;
While Love and I go Maying still.

The witch winds of December
Their harps of iron have rasped
Above the ebbing ember
Where Love and I sit clasped.
Our garlands, winter wrath may kill,
But Love and I go Maying still.

Published by "The Reader" in Dec. '06.

THE PASSING PANTOMIME.

Springtide is Columbine,
Footing it faerily;
Sparkle her spangles fine;
Trip, lassie, merrily.
Bance for me, Columbine,
Bubble of wanton wine.

Summertime is the Clown,
Painted audaciously,
Green, crimson, azure, brown,
Singing vivaciously.
Glow with full laughter, Clown,
Under your lotos crown.

Autumn is Harlequin,
Magic his pleasuring;
Making the forest's green
Gold, for our treasuring.
Can you gild, Harlequin,
Silvery hair and thin?

Winter is Pantaloon,
Stiffest but wariest;
Bluff, tragic old buffoon,
Under frowns, merriest.
Mime for me, Pantaloon;
Curtains drop all too soon.

Accepted by the New England Mag.

THE QUATRAIN.

A sighing thrust is Sonnet; Triolet
The lilting lark's reiterated note.
While Quatrain is a humming bird afloat;
Minute, but with the vesper glory set.

Sinclair Lewis,
F.A.Stokes Co.,
443 Fourth Ave.,
New York City.

MANHATTAN SINGS

The city is chorusing everywhere;

The street cars rumble a battle-roar;

And a man swings by with his strong head bare,
A-crooning hotly the "Toreador."

Across in a flat is a quaint old shrew,

Murmuring tenderly "Old Black Joe;"

And quavering "Jesus, We Come to You,"

The Salvation Army lassies go.

The West-Call means from a distant train;

And the sea-scent whispers of jade-flecked blue.

The city is singing its joy and pain;

The world is a-ringing -- with songs of You!

# #

THE ISLES OF LONGING

Pilgrims to the Isles of longing,
Pilgrims through the lyric dawn,
Singing down the silver highway
Till reluctant dusk be gone.

Comrades, with the sun a comrade,
Toward the sunset's tragic rose.
Though our highway is of asphalt,
Buds -- and souls -- in town unclose.

Yonder, larks are springing fervent;
But our Isles of Utter Bliss,
Are they not more fresh and freeing
Than the flushing fields we miss?

If she be here in the city,
Are there other ways than this?

Wander, wander, comrades, wander;
Somewhere, yonder, lie the Isles.
Chorus till the last long tender
Fragrance of the sunset smiles.

We shall find the Isles of Longing;
And forgotten litanies
Shall be chanted there forever,
Echoing on sapphire seas.

Though the somnifying shrines be sombre,
We shall ring them round with prayer;
We shall lighten them with laughter --
Will she not find solace there?

LOVE'S FREEMAN.

Love is a monarch who permits no peer.

For shame and fame, and honor and disgrace,

Do reverence and homage to his place.

Your boming glory's laugh he longs to hear;

Your reason is a sage he wishes near;

He looks with musing joy upon your face.

Yet, were these servitors a traitor race,
In you would Love find other liegemen, dear.

<u>Could</u> Love find in you sorrow-fettered shame --

Ash of some revolution's perilous brand --

That follower would bring, at most, a tear,

Not anger, from him; while his kingly name

Made of such slave an honored freeman, dear,

Sheltemed within Love's patriarchal hand.

###

Sinclair Lewis,
443 Fourth Avenue,
F.A. Stokes Co.,
New York City.

BEYOND THE RAINBOW

Beyond the rainbow is no pot of gold.

There never was. The ancient legend lied;

And all the mud-bespattered fools who tried
To find it, stumbled gravely through the old
Waste of accustomed puddles -- to behold

The mocking rainbow glory fade, beside
A bleakly endless insolence of tide
Sneering with fog and dull with seaweed mold.

Beyond your careless, life-illumining smile,
Can there, God! can there be, the gold of love?

I do not know; and care too much to care.

At least, prismatic glory shines the while
About me, as I quest the treasure-trove;

And it may be, this time, the gold is there!

212

THE CHALICE

Beloved, why were it not well to ask
If this chalice of love is not worthy the taking?
Glance at it, dear. There's few that are making
The silent gifts -- that's a bit of a task,
And the most are busy with structural steel.
Their riveting love has glittered and clattered,
I know; and this, why, it might be shattered,
This crystal-like vase; but -- it might be real!
Perhaps it came from a master's wheel,
And the foolish potter thought great gifts mattered.
Perhaps it's a master-wrought deep crystal flask;
Perhaps it might hold a rose -- why not ask?

########

218

SECOND SESSION

WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON, JANUARY 24TH

338. LANIER, SIDNEY. Poems of Sidney Lanier, Edited by His Wife. With a Memorial by William Hayes Ward. *Portrait*. 12mo, original green beveled cloth, gilt top; slightly worn. In a half morocco slip-case. New York, 1884

FIRST COLLECTED EDITION. Contains "The Marshes of Glynn", here first printed in a volume of Lanier's own verse; it had appeared previously in "A Masque of Poets" and in Longfellow's compilation, "Poems of Places". The present is the FIRST APPEARANCE OF THE REVISED VERSION OF THE POEM. With the R. H. Baldwin bookplate.

339. LARDNER, RING W. You Know Me Al. A Busher's Letters, 1916 ♦ The Love Nest and Other Stories, 1926. Together 2 vols., 12mo, original cloth; the first work has some cover defects. New York, 1916-26

FIRST EDITIONS.

SINCLAIR Lewis is eminently represented within numbers 340 and 369. This group is the finest and most extensive selection of this Nobel Prize winner's works ever to be offered for public sale.

340. LEWIS, SINCLAIR. A collection of about forty typewritten manuscripts or carbon copies of early poems by Mr. Lewis, many bearing autograph notes on their publication, alterations or additions in the text, or original drawings. Together about 40 items. Undated

AN INTERESTING COLLECTION IN VIEW OF THE AUTHOR'S LATER WORK. These early poems are sentimental and conventional in tone, and some even essay a "child dialect" in the vein of Field or Riley. Several are addressed to the first Mrs Lewis.

With this collection is a copy of "Liberty" for October 10, 1931, which contains George Sylvester Viereck's article on Lewis's furnishing Jack London with plots; entitled "The Ghost of Jack London".

341. LEWIS, SINCLAIR. The original typewritten manuscript of Harvey Taylor's "Sinclair Lewis: A Bibliography", the "Uncollected Writings" section. With autograph additions and corrections by Mr Lewis, and five pages entirely in his autograph. 4to, 28 pages. Signed by the compiler.

N.p., [1931?]

342. [LEWIS, SINCLAIR.] Hike and the Aeroplane. By Tom Graham. COLORED illustrations by Arthur Hutchins. 12mo, original decorated cloth. In a morocco-backed slip case. New York [1912]

A SPLENDID COPY OF THE FIRST EDITION OF THE AUTHOR'S FIRST BOOK.

93

KINDLY READ CONDITIONS OF SALE IN FOREPART OF CATALOGUE

343. LEWIS, SINCLAIR. Our Mr. Wrenn. *Frontispiece*. 12mo, original cloth; one inner hinge slightly cracked; nail hole in back cover penetrating the top margin of several leaves; covers slightly soiled. New York, 1914

FIRST EDITION OF THE AUTHOR'S SECOND BOOK. PRESENTATION COPY FROM THE AUTHOR, inscribed on the front end-leaf: "To Talbot Mundy. Sing ho! from Sinclair Lewis with humble salaams to Mr. Mundy." Below this inscription, and probably in the autograph of Talbot Mundy, are the names of the recipients "Talbot and Rosemary Mundy".

344. LEWIS, SINCLAIR. Who Is Hugh Walpole and Why Should You Read Him? In: "Hugh Walpole, Master Novelist". *With a portrait*. 12mo, original wrappers. [New York: Doran, circa 1914]

THE RAREST OF ALL MR LEWIS'S PUBLICATIONS. WITH HIS AUTOGRAPH SIGNATURE ON THE FIRST PAGE. According to his bibliographer, not more than ten of these pamphlets are in existence. A fine copy.

345. LEWIS, SINCLAIR. The Trail of the Hawk. COLORED *frontispiece*. 12mo, original cloth; with the original front end-leaf, which had been extracted, tipped in. In a cloth case. New York [1915]

FIRST EDITION. PRESENTATION COPY FROM THE AUTHOR, inscribed on the front end-leaf: "To Hildegarde Hawthorne, understander of people & books—books like 'The Rat Pit' & perhaps even of a mild little mouse-pit like 'Trail of the Hawk.' Sinclair Lewis. Aug. 31, 1915." Tipped in are two typewritten letters signed by the author addressed to Miss Hawthorne and relating to "The Trail of the Hawk", each one-page and dated Aug. 3 and Oct. 5 [1915].

346. LEWIS, SINCLAIR. The Innocents. *Frontispiece*. 12mo, original gray cloth; slightly soiled. New York [1917]

FIRST EDITION.

347. LEWIS, SINCLAIR. The Job. 12mo, original cloth; a few faint stains on cover. New York [1917]

FIRST EDITION. PRESENTATION COPY FROM THE AUTHOR, inscribed on the front end-leaf: "To Harvey Taylor. Sinclair Lewis. New York, Dec. 14, 1931."

348. LEWIS, SINCLAIR. The Job. 12mo, original cloth, with the dust jacket. New York [1917]

FIRST EDITION.

349. LEWIS, SINCLAIR. Free Air. 12mo, original blue cloth. New York, 1919

FIRST EDITION. PRESENTATION COPY FROM THE AUTHOR, inscribed on the front end-leaf: "To Harvey Taylor. Sinclair Lewis. N. Y. Dec. 14, 1931."

350. LEWIS, SINCLAIR. Main Street. 12mo, original medium blue cloth; a few faint stains on the covers. New York, 1920]

FIRST EDITION. In this copy the numeral on page 54 is perfect, with a perfect "y" in the word "may" in the last line of page 387. PRESENTATION COPY FROM THE AUTHOR, inscribed on the front end-leaf: "To Harvey Taylor. Sinclair Lewis."

94

TO HER MOST CATHOLIC MAJESTY,
GRACE, QUEEN OF COEUR D'EGGERE
AND PRINCESS OF THE ISLES OF
FARAWAY, THESE GREETINGS:

AIDEN PRINCESS of Faraway,
Silver-hearted, aloof, alone,
We, the neighboring rulers, say:
"You wear all of our crowns to-day,
Grace, you leave us a crumbled throne.
Our slaves and armies will scarcely stay
To bid adieu, as they vanish gay
With songs to soften your breast of stone.
Desolate, desert, we pace and groan.

Why have you taken our pride away?
And left us humble, for, by our fay,
Once we were mighty of blood and bone;
Battle gods have we ground to clay,
Breaking the throat of the roaring fray ---
Aye, we who tug at our beards and pray
To the Maiden Monarch who dreams alone.

Oh the thrones go up and the thrones go down
As Grace is minded to smile or frown.
And what can the desolate rulers do
But drag their ermine in dust, to woo
And ---

But we all cannot marry you!
So, pouf! there's nothing to do but pray
For mercy, Princess of Faraway.

Mercy: -- of kissing your royal hand;
Mercy: -- of hearing your laughter bubble;
That once again we may kingly stand,
With heads up-thrust from this fog of trouble;
That once again we may starkly stand,
Breaking battles with mighty hand.
Mercy: -- lest we be clean fordone!
Grace, an alms and a benison!"

3

THE WORLD AND YOU

O wondered, as we tramped the twilit Park,
Brooding beneath the brooding afterglow:
"What shall I do with life?....I do not know!
I am a cloud that sluggish breezes blow,
Not swart and swift, tempestuous with rain,
Nor bound along a vasty path of air
Gold-sprinkled, far above the sweep of sea,
To join the choiring company of sunset
And find the one high cloud that waits for me.
And sometimes, I am very weary, Hal,
Wondering what the poor cloud's path will be."

Dear Lady, I can only know my world,
My own sphere, with its tiny continent,
Its swamps of pain and wide gray plains of toil,
The joyous sea and islands of content,
But it --- |princess, dear Princess d'Outre Mer,
You glanced across the million leagues of air
And all my leather-aproned sooty men
Trooped from their hurly-burly rustic fair,
Crying, "Strange light has glorified our den!"
And stood, with furrowed shoulders straight again,
Gazing, with lifted chins and moistened cheeks,
Even to the glory of the morning peaks.

You merely called across, "Friends, over there,
I send a little silver fluttering prayer
To dwell among you."

Then, a-sudden, hurled
From ancient woods of half-forgotten name,
Tall knights, like burnished cressets tipped with flame,
Who rode to quest the Mystic Grael anew,
Chaunting "The Tender Rose of All the World,
(Methought their chaunt was woven all of you!)

So -- reapers laughed amid the sheaves of gold,
So -- children heard the blue-bowl's story told
When twilight petals shivered in the dew.
So -- autumn harvest was an hundredfold!

(And ever shyly, in the forest,
Peeped again the eyes of fays,
For the faeries we had banished
We besought, in winsomer days.)

My world you ruled -- and there are others, too!
You wondered, "What have I to give the world?"
Rather, "What have all worlds, for such as you"!

......

There is a great big house of stone
Where steps and steps and steps come down;
A hugeous castle way up town
That, when I'm grown up, I shall own
Because the lonely stonely place
Had ought to have a queen like Grace.

There is a jolly little house
That has a mys'try door, all white,
And there's a knocker, shiny bright,
And a g'raniums for her kmax romper-blouse.
It has a sunny morning face
And waits and smiles and waits for Grace.

Upon the castle's waxy floor
We could put on our roller skates
And slide like it was china plates;

But, in the little house, before
The fire we'd sit, and not be 'fraid
To eat our bread and milk,
A d bawl for cake and lemonade
And play our bibs were silk.

But exxxmax either house, but either case
Would be so jubilous -- with Grace!