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Perkins of Portland

<h2> VI. THE ADVENTURE OF THE POET </h2> ABOUT the time Perkins and I were booming our justly famous Codliver Capsules,—you know them, of course, “sales, ten million boxes a year,”—I met Kate. She was sweet and pink as the Codliver Capsules. You recall the verse that went:— “'Pretty Polly, do you think, Blue is prettier, or pink?' 'Pink, sir,' Polly said, 'by far; Thus Codliver Capsules are.'” You see, we put them up in pink capsules. “The pink capsules for the pale corpuscles.” Perkins invented the phrase. It was worth forty thousand dollars to us. Wonderful man, Perkins! But, as I remarked, Kate was as sweet and pink as Codliver Capsules; but she was harder to take. So hard, in fact, that I couldn't seem to take her; and the one thing I wanted most was to take her—away from her home and install her in one of my own. I seemed destined to come in second in a race where there were only two starters, and in love-affairs you might as well be distanced as second place. The fellow who had the preferred location next pure reading-matter in Kate's heart was a poet. In any ordinary business I will back an advertising man against a poet every time, but this love proposition is a case of guess at results. You can't key your ad. nor guarantee your circulation one day ahead; and, just as likely as not, some low-grade mailorder dude will step in, and take the contract away from a million-a-month home journal with a three-color cover. There I was, a man associated with Perkins the Great, with a poet of our own on our staff, cut out by a poet, and a Chicago poet at that. You can guess how high-grade he was. The more I worked my follow-up system of bonbons and flowers, the less chance I seemed to have with Kate; and the reason was that she was a poetry fiend. You know the sort of girl. First thing she does when she meets you is to smile and say: “So glad to meet you. Who's your favorite poet?” She pretty nearly stumped me when she got that off on me. I don't know a poem from a hymn-tune. I'm not a literary character. If you hand me anything with all the lines jagged on one end and headed with capital letters on the other end, I'll take it for as good as anything in the verse line that Longfellow ever wrote. So when she asked me the countersign, “Who's your favorite poet?” I gasped, and then, by a lucky chance, I got my senses back in time to say “Biggs” before she dropped me. When I said Biggs, she looked dazed. I had run in a poet she had never heard of, and she thought I was the real thing in poetry lore. I never told her that Biggs was the young man we had at the office doing poems about the Codliver Capsules, but I couldn't live up to my start; and, whenever she started on the poetry topic, I side-stepped to advertising talk. I was at home there, but you can't get in as much soulful gaze when you are talking about how good the ads. in the “Home Weekly” are as when you are reciting sonnets; so the poet walked away from me. 'I got Kate to the point where, when I handed her a new magazine, she would look through the advertising pages first; but she did not seem to enthuse over the Codliver Capsule pages any more than over the Ivory Soap pages, and I knew her heart was not mine. When I began to get thin, Perkins noticed it,—he always noticed everything,—and I laid the whole case before him. He smiled disdainfully. He laid his hand on my arm and spoke. “Why mourn?” he asked. “Why mope? Why fear a poet? Fight fire with fire; fight poetry with poetry! Why knuckle down to a little amateur poet when Perkins & Co. have a professional poet working six days a week? Use Biggs.” He said “Use Biggs” just as he would have said “Use Codliver Capsules.” It was Perkins's way to go right to the heart of things without wasting words. He talked in telegrams. He talked in caps, double leaded. I grasped his hand, for I saw his meaning. I was saved—or at least Kate was nailed. The expression is Perkins's. “Kate—hate, Kate—wait, Kate—mate,” he said, glowingly. “Good rhymes. Biggs can do the rest. We will nail Kate with poems. Biggs,” he said, turning to our poet, “make some nails.” Biggs was a serious-minded youth, with a large, bulgy forehead in front, and a large bald spot at the back of his head, which seemed to be yearning to join the forehead. He was the most conceited donkey I ever knew, but he did good poetry. I can't say that he ever did anything as noble as,— “Perkins's Patent Porous Plaster Makes all pains and aches fly faster,” but that was written by the immortal Perkins himself. It was Biggs who wrote the charming verse,— “When corpuscles are thin and white, Codliver Capsules set them right,” and that other great hit,— “When appetite begins to fail And petty woes unnerve us, When joy is fled and life is stale, The Pink Capsules preserve us. “When doubts and cares distress the mind And daily duties bore us, At fifty cents per box we find The Pink Capsules restore us.” You can see that an amateur poet who wrote such rot as the following to Kate would not be in the same class whatever:— <h3> TO KATE </h3> “Your lips are like cherries All sprinkled with dew; Your eyes are like diamonds, Sparkling and true. “Your teeth are like pearls in A casket of roses, And nature has found you The dearest of noses.” I had Kate copy that for me, and I gave it to Biggs to let him see what he would have to beat. He looked at it and smiled. He flipped over the pages of “Munton's Magazine,” dipped his pen in the ink, and in two minutes handed me this:— <h3> TO KATE </h3> “Your lips are like Lowney's Bonbons, they're so sweet; Your eyes shine like pans That Pearline has made neat. “Your teeth are like Ivory Soap, they're so white, And your nose, like Pink Capsules, Is simply all right!” I showed it to Perkins, and asked him how he thought it would do. He read it over and shook his head. “O. K.,” he said, “except Ivory Soap for teeth. Don't like the idea. Suggests Kate may be foaming at the mouth next. Cut it out and say:— “'Your soul is like Ivory Soap, it's so white.'” I sent the poem to Kate by the next mail, and that evening I called. She was very much pleased with the poem, and said it was witty, and just what she might have expected from me. She said it did not have as much soul as Tennyson's “In Memoriam,” but that it was so different, one could hardly compare the two. She suggested that the first line ought to be illustrated. So the next morning I sent up a box of bonbons,—just as an illustration. “Now, Biggs,” I said, “we have made a good start; and we want to keep things going. What we want now is a poem that will go right to the spot. Something that will show on the face of it that it was meant for her, and for no one else. The first effort is all right, but it might have been written for any girl.” “Then,” said Biggs, “you'll have to tell me how you stand with her, so I can have something to lay hold on.” I told him as much as I could, just as I had told my noble Perkins; and Biggs dug in, and in a half-hour handed me:— <h3> THE GIRL I LOVE </h3> “I love a maid, and shall I tell you why? It is not only that her soulful eye Sets my heart beating at so huge a rate That I'm appalled to feel it palpitate; No! though her eye has power to conquer mine. And fill my breast with feelings most divine, Another thing my heart in love immersed— Kate reads the advertising pages first! “A Sunday paper comes to her fair hand Teeming with news of every foreign land, With social gossip, fashions new and rare, And politics and scandal in good share, With verse and prose and pictures, and the lore Of witty writers in a goodly corps, Wit, wisdom, humor, all things interspersed— Kate reads the advertising pages first! “The magazine, in brilliant cover bound, Into her home its welcome way has found, But, ere she reads the story of the trust, Or tale of bosses, haughty and unjust, Or tale of love, or strife, or pathos deep That makes the gentle maiden shyly weep, Or strange adventures thrillingly rehearsed, Kate reads the advertising pages first! “Give me each time the maid with such a mind, The maid who is superior to her kind; She feels the pulse-beats of the world of men, The power of the advertiser's pen; She knows that fact more great than fiction Is, And that the nation's life-blood is its 'biz.' I love the maid who woman's way reversed And reads the advertising pages first!” “Now, there,” said Biggs, “is something that ought to nail her sure. It is one of the best things I have ever done. I am a poet, and I know good poetry when I see it; and I give you my word that is the real article.” I took Biggs's word for it, and I think he was right; but he had forgotten to tell me that it was a humorous poem, and when Kate laughed over it, I was a little surprised. I don't know that I exactly expected her to weep over it, but to me it seemed to be a rather soulful sort of thing when I read it. I thought there were two or three quite touching lines. But it worked well enough. She and her poet laughed over it; and, as it seemed the right thing to do, I screwed up my face and ha-ha'd a little, too, and it went off very well. Kate told me again that I was a genius, and her poet assured me that he would never have thought of writing a poem anything like it. “Well, now,” said Biggs, when I had reported progress, “we want to keep following this thing right up. System is the whole thing. You have told her how nice she is in No. 1, and given a reason why she is loved in No. 2. What we want to do is to give her in No. 3 a reason why she should like you. Has she ever spoken of Codliver Capsules?” So far as I could remember she had not. “That is good,” said Biggs; “very good, indeed. She probably doesn't identify you with them yet, or she would have thrown herself at your head long ago. We don't want to brag about it—not yet. We want to break it to her gently. We want to be humble and undeserving. You must be a worm, so to speak.” “Biggs,” I said, with dignity, “I don't propose to be a worm, so to speak.” “But,” he pleaded, “you must. It's only poetic license.” That was the first I knew that poets had to be licensed. But I don't wonder they have to be. Even a dog has to be licensed, these days. “You must be the humble worm,” continued Biggs, “so that later on you can blossom forth into the radiant conquering butterfly.” I didn't like that any better. I showed Biggs that worms don't blossom. Plants blossom. And butterflies don't conquer. And worms don't turn into butterflies—caterpillars do. “Very well,” said Biggs, “you must be the humble caterpillar, then.” I told him I would rather be a caterpillar than a worm any day; and after we had argued for half an hour on whether it was any better to be a caterpillar than to be a worm. Biggs remembered that it was only metaphorically speaking, after all, and that nothing would be said about worms or caterpillars in the poem, and he got down to work on No. 3. When he had it done, he put his feet on his desk and read it to me. He called it <h3> HUMBLE MERIT </h3> “No prince nor poet proud am I, Nor scion of an ancient clan; I cannot place my rank so high— I'm the Codliver Capsule Man. “No soulful sonnets I indite, Nor do I play the pipes of Pan; In five small words my place I write— I'm the Codliver Capsule Man. “No soldier bold, with many scars, Nor hacking, slashing partisan; I have not galloped to the wars— I'm the Codliver Capsule Man. “No, mine is not the wounding steel, My life is on a gentler plan; My mission is to cure and heal— I'm the Codliver Capsule Man. “I do not cause the poor distress By hoarding all the gold I can; I, advertising, pay the press— I'm the Codliver Capsule Man. “And if no sonnets I can write, Pray do not put me under ban; Remember, if your blood turns white, I'm the Codliver Capsule Man!” “Well,” asked Biggs, the morning after I had delivered the poem, “how did she take it?” I looked at Biggs suspiciously. If I had seen a glimmer of an indication that he was fooling with me, I would have killed him; but he seemed to be perfectly serious. “Was that poem intended to be humorous?” I asked. “Why, yes! Yes! Certainly so,” Biggs replied. “At least it was supposed to be witty; to provoke a smile and good humor at least.” “Then, Biggs,” I said, “it was a glorious success. They smiled. They smiled right out loud. In fact, they shouted. The poet and I had to pour water on Kate to get her out of the hysterics. It is all right, of course, to be funny; but the next time don't be so awful funny. It is not worth while. I like to see Kate laugh, if it helps my cause; but I don't want to have her die of laughter. It would defeat my ends.” “That is so,” said Biggs, thoughtfully. “Did she say anything?” “Yes,” I said; “when she was able to speak, she asked me if the poem was a love poem.” “What did you tell her?” asked Biggs, and he leaned low over his desk, turning over papers. “I told her it was,” I replied; “and she said that if any one was looking for a genius to annex to the family, they ought not to miss the chance.” “Ah, ha!” said Biggs, proudly; “what did I tell you? You humbled yourself. You said, 'See! I am only the lowly Codliver Capsule man;' but you said it so cleverly, so artistically, that you gave the impression that you were a genius. You see what rapid strides you are making? Now here,” he added, taking a paper from his desk, “is No. 4, in which you gracefully and poetically come to the point of showing her your real standing. You have been humble—now you assert yourself in your real colors. When she reads this she will begin to see that you wish to make her your wife, for no man states his prospects thus clearly unless he means to propose soon. You will see that she will be ready to drop into your hand like a ripe peach from a bough. I have called this 'Little Drops of Water.'” “Wait a minute,” I said. “If this is going to have anything about the Codliver Capsules in it, don't you think the title is just a little suggestive? You know our formula. Don't you think that 'Little Drops of Water' is rather letting out a trade secret?” Biggs smiled sarcastically. “Not at all,” he said. “The suggestion I intended to make was that 'Little drops of water, Little grains of sand, Make the mighty ocean,' etc. But if you wish, we will call it 'Many a Mickle makes a Muckle';” and he read the following poem in a clear, steady voice:— “How small is a Codliver Capsule, And ten of them put in each box! And the boxes and labels cost something— No wonder that Ignorance mocks! “How cheap are the Codliver Capsules; Two boxes one dollar will buy! One Capsule costs only a nickel— The price is considered not high. “Well known are the Codliver Capsules,— We herald their fame everywhere; And costly is our advertising, But Perkins & Co. do not care. “We spend on the Codliver Capsules, To advertise them, every year, A Million cold Uncle Sam dollars— I hope you will keep this point clear. “How, then, can the Codliver Capsules, Which bring but a nickel apiece, Yield us on our invested money A single per cent, of increase? “How? We sell of the Codliver Capsules Full four million boxes a year, Which, at fifty cents each, gives a total Of two million dollars, my dear. “You see that the Codliver Capsules, When all advertising is paid, Net us just a million of dollars, From which other costs are defrayed. “Less these, then, the Codliver Capsules Net five hundred thousand of good, Cold, useful American dollars— A point I would have understood. “And who owns the Codliver Capsules? Two partners in Perkins & Co. One-half of the five hundred thousand To Perkins the Great must then go.” “And the rest of the Codliver Capsules Belong to your servant, my sweet, And these, with my love and devotion, I hasten to lay at your feet.” When I read this pretty poem to Kate, she began laughing at the first line, and I kept my eye on the water-pitcher, in case I should need it again to quell her hysterics; but, as I proceeded with the poem, she became thoughtful. When I had finished, her poet was laughing uproariously; but Kate was silent. “Is it possible,” she said, “that out of these funny little pink things you make for yourself two hundred and fifty thousand dollars a year?” “Certainly,” I said. “Didn't you understand that? I'll read the poem again.” “No! no!” she exclaimed, glancing hurriedly at the poet, who was still rolled up with laughter. “Don't do that. I don't like it as well as your other poems. I do not think it is half so funny, and I can't see what Mr. Milward there sees in it that is so humorous.” My face must have fallen; for I had put a great deal of faith in this poem, because of what Biggs had said. Kate saw it. “You are not a real poet,” she said as gently as she could. “You lack the true celestial fire. Your poems all savor of those I read in the street-cars. Poets are born, and not made. The true poet is a noble soul, floating above the heads of common mortals, destined to live alone, and unmarried—” Mr. Milward sat up suddenly and ceased laughing. “And now,” continued Kate, “I must ask you both to excuse me, for I am very tired.” But what do you think! As I was bowing good-night, while her poet was struggling into his rubber overshoes, she whispered, so that only I could hear:— “Come up to-morrow evening. I will be all alone!” When, two days later, I told Perkins of my engagement, he only said:— “Pays to advertise.” <hr /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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