The Glugs of Gosh by Clarence James Dennis (motivational novels TXT) 📖

here and there a nervous cheer
Was heard, and someone growled, "Hear, hear."

"Kind friends," said Sym . . . But, at a glance,
The 'cute Sir Stodge had seen his chance.
"Quid nuncl" he cried. "O noble Glugs,
This fellow takes you all for mugs.
I ask him, where's his quid pro quo?
I ask again, quo warranto?

"Shall this man filch our wits from us
With his furor poeticus?
Nay!" cried Sir Stodge. "You must agree,
If you will hark a while to me
And at the Glugs' collective head
He flung strange language, ages dead.

With mystic phrases from the Law,
With many an old and rusty saw,
With well-worn mottoes, which he took
Haphazard from the copy-book,
For half an hour the learned Knight
Belaboured them with all his might.

And, as they wakened from their daze,
Their murmurs grew to shouts of praise.
Glugs who'd reviled him overnight
All in a moment saw the light.
"O learned man! 0 seer!" cried they. . . .
And education won the day.

Then, quickly to Sir Stodge's side
There bounded, in a single stride,
His Nibs of Quog; and flinging wide
His arms, "O victory!" he cried.
"I'm with Sir Stodge, 0 Glugs of Gosh!
And we have won! Long live King Splosh!"

Then pointing angrily at Sym,
Cried Quog, "This is the end of him!
For months I've marked his crafty dodge,
To bring dishonour to Sir Stodge.
I've lured him here, the traitrous dog,
And shamed him!" quoth his Nibs of Quog.

Hoots for the Tinker tore the air,
As Sym went, wisely, otherwhere.
Cheers for Sir Stodge were long and loud;
And, as amid his Swanks he bowed,
To mark his thanks and honest pride,
His Nibs of Quog bowed by his side.

The Thursday after that, at three,
The King invited Quog to tea.
Quoth Quog, "It was a task to bilk . . .
(I thank you; sugar, please, and milk) . . .
To bilk this Tinker and his pranks.
A scurvy rogue! . . . (Ah, two lumps, thanks.)

"A scurvy rogue!" continued Quog.
'Twas easy to outwit the dog.
Altho', perhaps, I risked my life--
I've heard he's handy with a knife.
Ah, well, 'twas for my country's sake . . .
(Thanks; just one slice of currant cake.)"



XI. OGS


It chanced one day, in the middle of May,
There came to the great King Splosh
A policeman, who said, while scratching his head,
"There isn't a stone in Gosh
To throw at a dog; for the crafty Og,
Last Saturday week, at one,
Took our last blue-metal, in order to settle
A bill for a toy pop-gun."
Said the King, jokingly,
"Why, how provokingly
Weird; but we have the gun."

And the King said, "Well, we are stony-broke."
But the Queen could not see it was much of a joke.
And she said, "If the metal is all used up,
Pray what of the costume I want for the Cup?
It all seems so dreadfully simple to me.
The stones? Why, import them from over the sea."
But a Glug stood up with a mole on his chin,
And said, with a most diabolical grin,
"Your Majesties, down in the country of Podge,
A spy has discovered a very 'cute dodge.
And the Ogs are determined to wage a war
On Gosh, next Friday, at half-past four."
Then the Glugs all cried, in a terrible fright,
"How did our grandfathers manage a fight?"

Then the Knight, Sir Stodge, he opened his Book,
And he read, "Some very large stones they took,
And flung at the foe, with exceeding force;
Which was very effective, tho' rude, of course."
And lo, with sorrowful wails and moans,
The Glugs cried, "Where, Oh, where are the stones?"
And some rushed North, and a few ran West;
Seeking the substitutes seeming best.
And they gathered the pillows and cushions and rugs
From the homes of the rich and middle-class Glugs.
And a hasty message they managed to send
Craving the loan of some bricks from a friend.

On the Friday, exactly at half-past four,
Came the Ogs with triumphant glee.
And the first of their stones hit poor Mister Ghones,
The captain of industry.
Then a pebble of Podge took the Knight, Sir Stodge,
In the curve of his convex vest.
He gurgled "Un-Gluggish!" His heart growing sluggish,
He solemnly sank to rest.
'Tis inconceivable,
Scarcely believable,
Yet, he was sent to rest.

And the King said, "Ouch!" And the Queen said, "0o!
My bee-ootiful drawing-room! What shall I do?"
But the warlike Ogs, they hurled great rocks
Thro' the works of the wonderful eight-day clocks
They had sold to the Glugs but a month before--
Which was very absurd; but, of course, 'twas war.
And the Glugs cried, "What would our grandfathers do
If they hadn't the stones that they one time threw?"
But the Knight, Sir Stodge, and his mystic Book
Oblivious slept in a grave-yard nook.

Then a Glug stood out with a pot in his hand,
As the King was bewailing the fate of his land,
And he said, "If these Ogs you desire to retard,
Then hit them quite frequent with anything hard."
So the Glugs seized anvils, and editors' chairs,
And smote the Ogs with them unawares;
And bottles of pickles, and clocks they threw,
And books of poems, and gherkins, and glue,
Which they'd bought with the stones--as, of course, you know--
From the Ogs but a couple of months ago.
Which was simply inane, when you reason it o'er;
And uneconomic, but then, it was war.

When they'd fought for a night and the most of a day,
The Ogs threw the last of their metal away.
Then they went back to Podge, well content with their fun,
And, with much satisfaction, declared they had won.
And the King of the Glugs gazed around on his land,
And saw nothing but stones strewn on every hand:
Great stones in the palace, and stones in the street,
And stones on the house-tops and under the feet.
And he said, with a desperate look on his face,
"There is nothing so ghastly as stones out of place.
And, no doubt, this Og scheme was a very smart dodge.
But whom does it profit--my people, or Podge?"



XII. EMILY ANN


Government muddles, departments dazed,
Fear and confusion wherever he gazed;
Order insulted, authority spurned,
Dread and distraction wherever he turned--
Oh, the great King Splosh was a sad, sore king,
With never a statesman to straighten the thing.

Glus all importunate urging their claims,
With selfish intent and ulterior aims,
Glugs with petitions for this and for that,
Standing ten-deep on the royal door-mat,
Raging when nobody answered their ring--
Oh, the great King Splosh was a careworn king.

And he looked to the right, and he glanced to the left,
And he glared at the roof like a monarch bereft
Of his wisdom and wits and his wealth all in one;
And, at least once a minute, asked, "What's to be done?"
But the Swanks stood around him and answered, with groans,
"Your majesty, Gosh is half buried in stones!"

"How now?" cried the King. "Is there not in my land
One Glug who can cope with this dreadful demand:
A rich man, a poor man, a beggar man, thief--
I reck not his rank so he lessen my grief--
A soldier, a sailor, a--" Raising his head,
With relief in his eye, "Now, I mind me!" he said.

"I mind me a Tinker, and what once befel,
When I think, on the whole, he was treated not well.
But he shall be honoured, and he shall be famed
If he read me this riddle. But how is he named?
Some commonplace title, like-Simon?-No-Sym!
Go, send out my riders, and scour Gosh for him."

They rode for a day to the sea in the South,
Calling the name of him, hand to the mouth.
They rode for a day to the hills in the East,
But signs of a tinker saw never the least.
Then they rode to the North thro' a whole day long,
And paused in the even to hark to a song.


"Kettles and pans! Kettles and pans!
Oh, who can show tresses like Emily Ann's?
Brown in the shadow and gold at the tips,
Bright as the smile on her beckoning lips.
Bring out your kettle! 0 kettle or pan!
So I buy me a ribband for Emily Ann."


With his feet in the grass, and his back to a tree,
Merry as only a tinker can be,
Busily tinkering, mending a pan,
Singing as only a merry man can . . .
"Sym!" cried the riders. " 'Tis thus you are styled?"
And he paused in his singing, and nodded and smiled.

Said he: "Last eve, when the sun was low,
Down thro' the bracken I watched her go--
Down thro' the bracken, with simple grace--
And the glory of eve shone full on her face;
And there on the sky-line it lingered a span,
So loth to be leaving my Emily Arm."

With hands to their faces the riders smiled.
"Sym," they said--"be it so you're styled--
Behold, great Splosh, our sorrowing King,
Has sent us hither, that we may bring
To the palace in Gosh a Glug so named,
That he may be honoured and justly famed."

"Yet," said Sym, as he tinkered his can,
"What should you know of her, Emily Ann?
Early as cock-crow yester morn
I watched young sunbeams, newly born,
As out of the East they frolicked and ran,
Eager to greet her, my Emily Arm."

"King Splosh," said the riders, "is bowed with grief;
And the glory of Gosh is a yellowing leaf.
Up with you, Tinker! There's work ahead.
With a King forsaken, and Swanks in dread,
To whom may we turn for the salving of man?"
And Sym, he answered them, "Emily Ann."

Said he: "Whenever I watch