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Bill Nye

Bill Nye and Boomerang / Or, The Tale of a Meek-Eyed Mule, and Some Other Literary Gems

MY MULE BOOMERANG,

Whose bright smile haunts me still, and whose low, mellow notes are ever sounding in my ears, to whom I owe all that I am as a great man, and whose presence has inspired me ever and anon throughout the years that are gone.

THIS VOLUME,

this coronet of sparkling literary gems as it were, this wreath of fragrant forget-me-nots and meek-eyed johnny-jump-ups, with all its wealth of rare tropical blossoms and high-priced exotics, is cheerfully and even hilariously dedicated

By the Author.

THE APOLOGY

{In my Boudoir,

{Nov. 17,1880.

Belford, Clarke & Co. :

Gentlemen: – In reply to your favor of the 22d ult. , I herewith transmit the material necessary for a medium size volume of my chaste and unique writings.

The matter has been arranged rather hurriedly, and no doubt in classifying this rectangular mass of soul, I have selected some little epics and ethereal flights of fancy which are not as good as others that I have left out, but my only excuse is this: the literary world has been compelled to yield up first one well known historical or scientific work and then another, careful investigation having shown that they were unreliable. This left suffering humanity almost destitute of a reliable work to which it could turn in its hour of great need.

So I have been compelled to hurry more than I wanted to.

It affords me great pleasure, however, to know what a feeling of blessed rest and childlike confidence and assurance-and some more things of that nature-will follow the publication of this work.

Print the book in large coarse type, so that the old people can get a chance at it. It will reconcile them to death, perhaps.

Then sell it at a moderate price.

It is really priceless in value, but put it within the reach of all, and then turn it loose without a word of warning. The Author.

Laramie City, Wyoming.

OSTROPHE TO AN ORPHAN MULE

Oh! lonely, gentle, unobtrusive mule!Thou standest idly 'gainst the azure sky,And sweetly, sadly singeth like a hired man. Who taught thee thus to warbleIn the noontide heat and wrestle withThy ceep, corroding grief and joyless woe?Who taught thy simple heartIts pent-up, wildly-warring wasteOf wanton woe to carol forth uponThe silent air?I chide thee not, because thySong is fraught with grief-embitteredMonotone and joyless minor chordsOf wild, imported melody, for thouArt restless, woe begirt andCompassed round about with gloom,Thou timid, trusting, orphan mule!Few joys indeed, are thine,Thou thrice-bestricken, madlyMournful, melancholy mule. And he alone who strewsThy pathway with his cold remainsCan give thee recompenseOf lemoncholy woe. He who hath sought to steerThy limber, yielding tailFerninst thy crupper-bandHath given thee joy, and he alone. 'Tip true, he may have shotAthwart the Zodiac, and, lookingO'er the outer walls uponThe New Jerusalem,Have uttered vain regrets. Thou reckest not, O orphan mule,For it hath given thee joy, andBound about thy bursting heart,And held thy tottering reasonTo its throne. Sing on, O mule, and warbleIn the twilight gray,Unchidden by the heartless throng. Sing of thy parents on thy father's side. Yearn for the days now past and gone:For he who pens these halting,Limping lines to theeDoth bid thee yearn, and yearn, and yearn.