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IF THE BOOK IS UNDER COPYRIGHT IN YOUR COUNTRY, DO NOT DOWNLOAD OR REDISTRIBUTE THIS FILE. _Title:_ Saturday to Monday _Date of first publication:_ 1929 _Author:_ Newman Levy (1888-1966) _Illustrator:_ John Held, Jr. (1889-1958) _Date first posted:_ April 17, 2023 _Date last updated:_ April 17, 2023 Faded Page eBook #20230428 This eBook was produced by: Al Haines, Cindy Beyer & the online Distributed Proofreaders Canada team at https://www.pgdpcanada.net [Cover Illustration] _SATURDAY TO MONDAY_ NEWMAN LEVY: _Opera Guyed_ • _1923_ _Gay but Wistful_ • _1925_ SATURDAY TO MONDAY NEWMAN LEVY & JOHN HELD JR. [Illustration] _NEW YORK_ • ALFRED•A•KNOPF • 1930 Copyright 1929, 1930, by _NEWMAN LEVY_ TO RUTH AND LEN TO WHOM NONE OF THESE VERSES APPLY THIS BOOK IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED _Contents_ 1 • _The Invitation_ • 3 2 • _The Acceptance_ • 5 3 • _Grand Central Station_ • 7 4 • _Directions_ • 9 _WEEK-END VERSES_ 5 • _The Arrival_ • 16 6 • _The Gifts_ • 19 7 • _To My Host’s Eight-Year-Old Son_ • 20 8 • _Sunday Paper_ • 23 9 • _The Guest Room_ • 27 10 • _Guest Room Books_ • 31 11 • _The Bathroom_ • 35 12 • _Ode to a Guest Towel_ • 37 13 • _The Strenuous Host_ • 39 14 • _The Host with a Radio_ • 41 15 • _A Chaplet of Roses_ • 44 16 • _Anagrams_ • 46 17 • _To the Guest Who Sleeps Until Noon_ • 49 18 • _To the Guest Who is on a Diet_ • 53 19 • _To the Guest Who Takes the Early Monday Train_ • 55 20 • _Nocturne_ • 57 21 • _The Highbrow_ • 61 22 • _The Picnic_ • 63 23 • _My Yacht_ • 67 24 • _Parlor Games_ • 69 _VERSES FOR A GUEST ROOM_ 25 • _For a Small House_ • 73 26 • _For a Medium Sized House_ • 74 27 • _For a Large House_ • 75 28 • _The Departure_ • 76 29 • _L’Envoi_ • 79 _SATURDAY TO MONDAY_ [Illustration] The Invitation Dear Mab: We’ve had you on our mind (_That isn’t very cordial, is it?_) To ask if you and Hank could find (_Lord knows they will. They’re just the kind._) A chance to run up for a visit. We’re looking forward to your stay (_Like measles or the dysentery_) Please try to come this Saturday. (_Thank God that’s done!_) Your loving, Mary. [Illustration] The Acceptance Dear Mary: You were sweet to write. There’s nothing, dear, would please us greater. (_I might as well accept tonight_ _If not she’s sure to get us later._) We’re coming on the early train, (_We’d take a late one, were we able_.) We’ll love to see you both again. (_Well, now we’re in for it._) Love, Mabel. [Illustration] Grand Central Station The clock hath tolled the hour of ten o’clock, At five past ten the train we take departs, When suddenly my wife, as is her wont, Whenever week-end visiting we go Exclaims in tragic, anguished tones “Oh Hell! I haven’t bought a solitary thing For Marjorie, for Betty or for Bill.” Then, like a deer affrighted by the hounds, Like arrows speeding swiftly from the bow, With frantic haste we rush and tear about, And purchase make, nor dare to wait for change, Until, at last, we, breathless, board the train. We hear the gateman’s strident “All aboard!” As limp and worn we sink into our seats. But from our hearts there comes a grateful song, “Thank God, thank God for Liggetts!” we exclaim. Directions “_Turn left at the church and then over the bridge_ _Till you come to the fork—then right._ _Our house is the green one on top of the ridge_—” We’ve been travelling half of the night. Perhaps that’s your imbecile notion of fun But the joke is beginning to pall. If you wanted to fool us, when all’s said and done, Why _did_ you invite us at all? “_Turn left at the church_—” I’ve your letter right here. Seven times I’ve turned left at that church And I’ll eat any bridge you can show me that’s near, And we’re beautifully left in the lurch. I believe you intended to lead us astray From the time that you asked us to call. If you think that’s a joke—well then, all I can say Is _why_ did you ask us at all? [Illustration] WEEK-END VERSES [Illustration] The Arrival There you come with luggage laden, Burdened down with grips and bags. Do you hope to, _Gott soll hüten_, Stay a month with all those rags? Though you’ve brought a lavish wardrobe, Though you’ve clothes and things galore, You’ll be borrowing our clothing Ere this blessed week-end’s o’er. “Heavens” I can hear you saying, “Really, I have lost my mind! I forgot to pack pyjamas And my comb is left behind.” [Illustration] [Illustration] The Gifts You cannot fool us, you little rascal, We’ve long been accustomed to week-end graft. That package contains a couple of novels And two pounds of chocolates purchased from Schrafft. To My Host’s Eight-Year-Old Son Who is an Incorrigible Wise Cracker As I listen with a rapture somewhat less than unabated To your youthful witticisms as narrated by your dad Your reported flair for repartee seems rather overrated, And your _mots_, to coin a phrase, sound scarcely _bon_ to me, my lad. When your fatuous progenitor repeats your humour childish With a feeling of despondency and ennui I’m suffused For the specimens I’ve listened to were scarcely Oscar Wildish, In the words of Queen Victoria I must say “We’re not amused.” [Illustration] Sunday Paper When I arise on Sunday morn And find my Sunday paper torn, Disheveled, crumpled, scattered, soiled, The day for me’s completely spoiled. I hold the worst of week-end crimes Is that of mixing up _The Times_. It’s hard enough to read the sheet When pristine virginal and neat. But when at breakfast I regale With news about Help Wanted Male Although the sun shines merrily The day starts grey and dour for me. Oh Hostess who with lure and snare Entraps the helpless to your lair This trifling boon may I suggest— A separate paper for each guest. [Illustration] [Illustration] The Guest Room Oh visitor within our nest ’Tis here thou’lt take thy nightly rest, Soft be thy couch, although we doubt it, But what are you going to do about it? For three long nights ’tis here thou’lt toss And count thy stay a total loss. Perchance thou’lt sleep, if so give thanks That thou art used to sleep on planks. The bed we occupy is soft, And in the stilly night we oft Shall think of thee till daylight breaks Acquiring bunions, corns and aches. [Illustration] [Illustration] Mayhap we ought to take thy shelf, And sleep upon the thing ourself, And thou wouldst wake refreshed and strong. Oh friend, and thou shouldst live so long. Guest Room Books Beside my chaste and downy cot There stands a goodly number Of stately tomes of prose and pomes To lull the guest to slumber. The verse of T. S. Eliot, A copy of Ulysses, As though to say “No place you’ll stay So cultured is as this is.” The works (_in French_) of Baudelaire, And Keats’ _Epipsychidion_ And next to it The Holy Writ Purloined, I fear, from Gideon. [Illustration] A goodly and narcotic list Of literary glories, While down below my host, I know, Is reading _Snappy Stories_. [Illustration] The Bathroom Remember while you’re here, you fool, That this is not the Shelton pool. If you would bathe we can’t refuse it, But others here would like to use it. The Great Outdoors and Nature’s calling The bathroom is no place for stalling. So kindly haste your morning laving And hasten too, I pray, your shaving. And if you happen, in your hurry, To cut your throat, why we should worry. But while you’re in here please remember We’re moving back to town September. [Illustration] Ode to a Guest Towel Oh dainty damask napery So cunningly bedight, What flight of jest or japery Conceived thy surface white? How painful is the memory Of time when thee I tried. Thou scrapéd as an emery My soft and tender hide. My handsome features rowelling, Thou made my skin to smart. I’d do with softer toweling, And somewhat less of art. Oh dainty damask napery So cunningly bedight, A vain inutile drapery Thou hangest there in sight. The Strenuous Host I regard as a menace The hosts who play tennis, And I’m one who dislikes Those who drag you on hikes. The golf playing host Is the one I hate most, And round of croquet Knocks me out for the day. Oh a plague on those well meaning Strenuous loons Who consider their homes As a branch of Muldoon’s. [Illustration] The Host with a Radio James P. Protheroe has a little radio. James P. Protheroe has a little radio. He turns on the doodad And jiggles with the dinguses And out of the horn comes a terrible squawk. “There’s too much static,” says James P. Protheroe, “There’s too much static I am sorry to say. Wait till I wiggle this Gadget just a little bit, I’ll try to get Buffalo or LRX.” Whenever a tune comes out of his radio Whenever you are set for a piece that you’d like, James P. Protheroe Will twiddle with the dinguses And the darned thing trails off in horrible noise. “You ought to have heard this set last Saturday, Got Pittsburg and Davenport as clear as day. It isn’t quite right yet,” Says James P. Protheroe. “Maybe the batteries need charging again.” James P. Protheroe has a little radio, James P. Protheroe’s a terrible pest. He never lets you listen To the finish of anything. As Mr. Lonsdale once remarked, “Aren’t we all?” A Chaplet of Roses for a Few of My Friends Who Have Inflicted Their Hospitality upon Me Harry O. I happen to know Has a cellar of pre-war stuff below, But when I’m invited there to dine He always serves me home-made wine. Morris E. is a restless soul Who likes to drag me out to bowl, Which makes the week-end tough for me, But it’s very nice for Morris E. Gilbert G. stays up all night To play a game called Shedding Light For which he has a passion deep, But I myself prefer to sleep. Leonard D. is fond of lakes, He leads me round through hills and brakes. And then he sits around at nights To rhapsodize o’er building sites. I like to visit Henry C. His slothful tastes appeal to me. He never moves except for food. His Scotch and Rye are very good. Anagrams Oh, some may thrill to the bugle’s trill Of the hunt at the break of dawn, Or the rousing sport of the tennis court On the green of a well-kept lawn, And some may speak of the crash of cleek As the ball down the fairway slams, But give me the grandest sport of all, A game of Anagrams. _A game of Anagrams, my lads,_ _And a rollicking spelling song,_ _And who’ll not thrill to a well-played kill_ _Of a word eight letters long?_ _So here’s to the sport of sports, my lads,_ _And give it a hearty cheer—_ _Oh, a rollicking game of Anagrams_ _And a good song ringing clear!_ Though some, indeed, of a sluggish breed Dull clods of a baser sort, May sit unstirred by the hard-fought word And the tingling zest of sport, Yet here’s to the lad whose blood runs mad As the letters turn and fall! So yoicks for a game of Anagrams And the sound of the Red Gods’ call! _So hark to the Red Gods’ call, my lads,_ _And the riotous sap of spring,_ _Let a cheer be heard for the well-spelled word;_ _For youth will have its fling._ _And a rouse for the missing vowels, my lads,_ _As the long-sought word draws near—_ _Oh, a jolly old game of Anagrams,_ _And a good song ringing clear!_ To the Guest Who Sleeps Until Noon About the house a silence sad and deep; In whispered tones the fretful children play; The baby and the nurse we’ve sent away To guard against a chance, incautious peep. Like sentinels who silent vigil keep With stealthy step we move from room to room. Our home, once gay, is now a somber tomb, For Mr. Pethwick-Baxter is asleep! [Illustration] Oh Mr. Pethwick-Baxter, do you know That hostelries throughout the land abound Where you can rent a bedroom for a song, And there, unvexed by heedless noise below, And undisturbed by rest-destroying sound, Can sleep your damned fool head off all day long? [Illustration] To the Guest Who is on a Diet Our marketing was careful and complete. With luscious food our groaning table groans To satisfy the taste of Mr. Jones, For Mr. Jones, we said, just _loves_ to eat. A fragrance fills the air of roasted goose, And Jones sits sadly toying with his spoon. Before him is a cracker and a prune, For Mr. Jones is trying to reduce. Upon his face a sad embarrassed grin As muffins, corn and shortcake pass him by, And wistfully he gazes on the pie, And in his coffee drops some saccharine. To the Guest Who Takes the Early Monday Train The grey of early morn seeps through the rain As sleepily we rub our weary eyes. ’Tis six, and we poor wretches must arise And, haggard, mourn our vanished sleep in vain. What boots it now to grumble and complain As down we creep to speed the parting guest? It matters not that he’s destroyed our rest, For Mr. Schultz must catch the early train. He said last night “I think perhaps I’ll stay. The trains are always jammed on Sunday night. I’ll leave tomorrow morn at break of day.” We had to acquiesce and act polite. “I have to be in town” he said “at eight.” For our part Friday would have been too late. Nocturne ’Tis Saturday night and the first day is past, Not a sound or a murmur is heard through the house, And you, in your chamber, secluded at last Settle down for an intimate chat with your spouse. In whispers the day passes by in review While one steady refrain with the melody blends, “Our host is all right and I like his wife too. They aren’t so bad but I can’t stand their friends.” [Illustration] “That girl who subscribes to the Book-of-the-Week, And the corpulent dame who imagined she sang, And that handsome young sap, the professional sheik, Now where, do you fancy, they gathered that gang?” Then you open the windows and turn out the light And you drop off to sleep as the day softly ends. From your wife comes a drowsy and whispered “Good-night, They aren’t so bad but I can’t stand their friends.” [Illustration] The Highbrow A week-end spent with Mr. G. Is as a college course to me. The conversation is so deep That frequently I fall asleep. From early morn till night time late They settle all affairs of state. They solve in comment crisp and terse The riddle of the universe. Convention they denounce as fake And now and then give Sex a break. Their literary talk, I find, Is hardly suited to my mind. They never have a pleasant word Except for names I never heard. I used to think myself quite bright, I still believe that I was right. [Illustration] The Picnic I was the leader of them, dominant and masterful, Sternly supervising how the lunch should be prepared. With hard-boiled eggs and sandwiches, of condiments a caster full, And packs of paper napkins, from our domicile we fared. Loud were the wailings of our offspring, young and petulant, Holding up our starting—if you get just what I mean; But at last we turned our faces toward the great wide open spaces, To the great wide open spaces where the wind blows clean. Then spake my wife to me, loudly and insultingly, Telling me to sound my horn, and not to drive so fast. Gil and Ada in the rear spake harshly and exultingly, Saying that I should have turned the street before the last, Loud was the weeping and the wailing of our child again. Once again we stopped the car—this time for oil and gas. Then rejoicing in a tank full, off we started glad and thankful For the wind-swept, gypsy highways, and the scent of fresh cut grass. Then ’neath the noonday sun deposited our flivver us, There, at my direction, was our luncheon quickly spread. The local animalculæ, ferocious and carnivorous, Attacked us by battalions on the arms and face and head. Shrill shrieked our darling child, vociferously clamorous, Seeking the attentions that a mother can bestow, Until filled with peanut butter, hard-boiled eggs and such-like clutter, We observed that it was raining, and ’twas time for us to go. Home through the lashing rain we turned our flivver presently. Caustic were the comments of my fond and faithful spouse. Gil and Ada in the rear discussed us most unpleasantly Amid the wailing of our child until we reached our house. So hey for the open road, and all that silly sort of thing, The jolly gypsy highway, if I make my meaning clear. Let the poets sing about it, I can gladly do without it, For I’ve had enough of outdoor life to last me for a year. Reprinted from _Gay and Wistful_. My Yacht If I only had a yacht, Which I’ve not, Spick and span with shiny paint, Which it aint, With a cushion ’gainst my neck I would loll upon the deck While the breeze, Cooling breeze, Played about my legs and knees. Simple pleasures such as these Would be my wont, But I don’t. Fragrant beverages I’d draw Through a straw. Pausing just to let them pass Another glass. And I’d never work nor think But I’d sit all day and drink While the sea, Soothing sea, Sang a barcarolle to me, Oh how lovely it would be On my yacht, Which I’ve not. Parlor Games When evening comes and daylight fades Our host, who’s full of bright suggestions, Exclaims “Come on! Let’s play Charades!” (_or Shedding Light—or Twenty Questions_). Then mirth and joy is unconfined As I, with strenuous endeavour Wear out my fagged and weary mind And vainly struggle to be clever. Oh host take pity on the guest Who bears his fate without complaining. Know well, he entertaineth best Who isn’t always entertaining. [Illustration] VERSES FOR A GUEST ROOM [Illustration] For a Small House The kids are asleep on the sofa While the wife has to sleep on a cot We pass it off brightly and act most politely, But really we mind it a lot. Of course we’re delighted to see you, May nothing your comfort here mar, But you can’t realize in a house of this size What an awful damned nuisance you are. For a Medium Sized House I have given you the guest room But it’s really not the best room, For the best room is the one I use myself. May your sleep be calm and easy Though your room’s a trifle breezy And your bed, you’ll find, is harder than a shelf. Though your room is damp and chilly Still I think it would be silly If I gave my warmest blankets to my guest. For it’s not unlikely, is it, That you may cut short your visit? And I like my warmth and comfort when I rest. For a Large House You serenely drop in Though you weren’t invited. We all have to grin And pretend we’re delighted. You smoke our cigars And you drink our best liquor You take out our cars Without even a flicker. You raise quite a din While the children are sleeping. Do you think it’s an inn Or a road house we’re keeping? You arrived in these parts Without giving us warning. And it won’t break our hearts If you leave in the morning. The Departure We’re really heartbroken you’re leaving, We hope that you’ll soon come again For a very long stay now that you’ve found the way, (_For God’s sake, please don’t miss that train_.) ’Twas perfectly lovely to have you. You’ve given us all quite a thrill. Though we hate you to go you’ll come back soon we know. (_Yes, over my body you will._) [Illustration] [Illustration] L’Envoi The season ends. The golden summer wanes, And we, again, with peacefulness suffused Forget the trials and woes of week-end dramas. The final guest has gone and naught remains Except, perhaps, a toothbrush, slightly used, Some razor strops, and bottoms of pyjamas. TRANSCRIBER NOTES Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected. Where multiple spellings occur, majority use has been employed. Punctuation has been maintained except where obvious printer errors occur. [The end of _Saturday to Monday_ by Newman Levy and John Held, Jr.]