THE CUMBERBUNCE
by: Paul West
- STROLLED beside the shining sea,
- I was as lonely as could be;
- No one to cheer me in my walk
- But stones and sand, which cannot talk--
- Sand and stones and bits of shell,
- Which never have a thing to tell.
-
- But as I sauntered by the tide
- I saw a something at my side,
- A something green, and blue, and pink,
- And brown, and purple, too, I think.
- I would not say how large it was;
- I would not venture that, because
- I took me rather by surprise,
- And I have not the best of eyes.
-
- Should you compare it to a cat,
- I'd say it was as large as that;
- Or should you ask me if the thing
- Was smaller than a sparrow's wing,
- I should be apt to think you knew,
- And simply answer, "Very true!"
-
- Well, as I looked upon the thing,
- It murmured, "Please, sir, can I sing?"
- And then I knew its name at once--
- It plainly was a Cumberbunce.
-
- You are amazed that I could tell
- The creature's name so quickly? Well,
- I knew it was not a paper-doll,
- A pencil or a parasol,
- A tennis-racket or a cheese,
- And, as it was not one of these,
- And I am not a perfect dunce--
- It had to be a Cumberbunce!
-
- With pleading voice and tearful eye
- It seemed as though about to cry.
- It looked so pitiful and sad
- It made me feel extremely bad.
- My heart was softened by the thing
- That asked me if it, please, could sing.
- Its little hand I longed to shake,
- But, oh, it had no hand to take!
- I bent and drew the creature near,
- And whispered in its pale blue ear,
- "What! Sing, my Cumberbunce? You can!
- Sing on, sing loudly, little man!"
-
- The Cumberbunce, without ado,
- Gazed sadly on the ocean blue,
- And, lifting up its little head,
- In tones of awful longing, said:
-
- "Oh, I would sing of mackerel skies,
- And why the sea is wet,
- Of jelly-fish and conger-eels,
- And things that I forget.
- And I would hum a plaintive tune
- Of why the waves are hot
- As water boiling on a stove,
- Excepting that they're not!
-
- "And I would sing of hooks and eyes,
- And why the sea is slant,
- And gayly tips the little ships,
- Excepting that I can't!
- I never sang a single song,
- I never hummed a note.
- There is in me no melody,
- No music in my throat.
-
- "So that is why I do not sing
- Of sharks, or whales, or anything!"
-
- I looked in innocent surprise,
- My wonder showing in my eyes.
- "Then why, O, Cumberbunce," I cried,
- "Did you come walking at my side
- And ask me if you, please, might sing,
- When you could not warble anything?"
-
- "I did not ask permission, sir,
- I really did not, I aver.
- You, sir, misunderstood me, quite.
- I did not ask you if I might.
- Had you correctly understood,
- You'd know I asked you if I could.
- So, as I cannot sing a song,
- Your answer, it is plain, was wrong.
- The fact I could not sing I knew,
- But wanted your opinion, too."
-
- A voice came softly o'er the lea.
- "Farewell! my mate is calling me!"
-
- I saw the creature disappear,
- Its voice, in parting, smote my ear--
- "I thought all people understood
- The difference 'twixt 'might' and 'could'!"
"The Cumberbunce" is reprinted
from A Nonsense Anthology. Ed. Carolyn Wells. New York:
Charles Scribner's Sons, 1915. |
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