A double limerick by Walter de la Mare:
There was a young lady of Rheims,
There was an old poet of Gizeh;
He rhymed on the deepest and sweetest of themes,
She scorned all his efforts to please her:
And he sighed, “Ah, I see,
She and sense won’t agree.”
So he scribbled her moonshine, mere moonshine, and she,
With jubilant screams, packed her trunk up in Rheims,
Cried aloud, “I am coming, O Bard of my dreams!”
And was clasped to his bosom in Gizeh.
After Arthur Conan Doyle’s death, his biographer Hesketh Pearson claimed to have discovered among his papers the scenario of an uncompleted tale.
A girl appeals to Sherlock Holmes for help — her uncle has been found shot in his bedroom, and her lover has been arrested as a suspect. The lover has recently had a quarrel with the old man; a revolver is found in his house that could have fired the fatal shot; and he owns a ladder whose feet match marks below the dead man’s window and which bears incriminating soil on its feet. The girl suspects another man who has been paying court to her.
Holmes and Watson go to the village, where they discover a pair of stilts in a disused well. When the accused man is found guilty of murder, Holmes is driven to a desperate stratagem: He dresses an actor as the murdered man, mounts him on the stilts, and has him approach the villain’s bedroom window, crying, “As you came for me, I have come for you!” Terrified, the man makes a full confession: He had planted the revolver and smeared the ladder’s feet with soil, hoping to win the girl and her money.
Pearson adds, apparently without intending the pun, “Presumably Doyle scrapped this because he felt on reflection that the episode of the stilts was rather tall.”
Of the story, Richard Lancelyn Green wrote, “there is no evidence to show that it is by [Doyle] and strong internal evidence to suggest that it’s not.” For what it’s worth, Robert A. Cutter completed the adventure in 1947.
A train engine pulling four cars meets a train engine pulling three cars. There’s a short spur next to the main track, but it can hold only one engine or one car at a time. A car cannot be joined to the front of an engine. What’s the most expeditious way for the two trains to pass one another?
This sounds fairly simple, but the solution is surprisingly involved. In presenting the problem in his Cyclopedia of 5000 Puzzles, Tricks, and Conundrums (1914), Sam Loyd wrote that it “shows the primitive way of passing trains before the advent of modern methods, and the puzzle is to tell just how many times it is necessary to back or reverse the directions of the engines to accomplish the feat, each reversal of an engine being counted as a move in the solution.”
In 1888, on reading that the villanelle requires “an elaborate amount of care in production, which those who read only would hardly suspect existed,” British philologist W.W. Skeat tossed off this one:
It’s all a trick, quite easy when you know it,
As easy as reciting A B C,
You need not be an atom of a poet.
If you’ve a grain of wit, and want to show it,
Writing a villanelle — take this from me —
It’s all a trick, quite easy when you know it.
You start a pair of rimes, and then you “go it”
With rapid-running pen and fancy free;
You need not be an atom of a poet.
Take any thought, write round it and below it,
Above or near it, as it liketh thee;
It’s all a trick, quite easy when you know it.
Pursue your task, till, like a shrub, you grow it,
Up to the standard size it ought to be;
You need not be an atom of a poet.
Clear it of weeds, and water it, and hoe it,
Then watch it blossom with triumphant glee.
It’s all a trick, quite easy when you know it;
You need not be an atom of a poet.
Another mistake there may be in the Picture of our first Parents, who after the manner of their posterity are both delineated with a Navel. … Which notwithstanding cannot be allowed, … that in the first and most accomplished piece, the Creator affected superfluities, or ordained parts without use or office.
… Now the Navel being a part, not precedent, but subsequent unto generation, nativity or parturition, it cannot be well imagined at the creation or extraordinary formation of Adam, who immediately issued from the Artifice of God; nor also that of Eve, who was not solemnly begotten, but suddenly framed, and anomalously proceeded from Adam.
— Thomas Browne, Pseudodoxia Epidemica, 1646
New English verb tenses, offered by David Morice in a November 1986 Word Ways article:
Future past perfect: I will have had walked
Progressive conditional: I would have should have been walking
Future present past: He will does walked
Double future: He will will walk
Unconditional present: He could can walk
Obsessive progressive: He is being doing walking
Refractive future perfect: He did will was have walked
Superjunctive: He might be having been about to be walking
The Tortoise stepped ever so carefully across the finish line, just a moment before the Hare would have been about to be going to hop across it himself. ‘I won!’ she said. The Hare paused a moment, then replied, ‘Yes, Ms. Tortoise, in the next decade you will have been about to be going to be used to be having been doing being the winner of this race, but tomorrow we’ll have to do it again, for it’s two out of three, ma’am.’
Thomas Jefferson coined the word pedicure (at least in the sense “a person responsible for pedicure”).
His memorandum book for February 7, 1785, reads “P[ai]d La Forest, pedicure 12f.”
(Thanks, Joseph.)
The sum of 2k – 4
From one to thirteen plus a score,
Over eleven,
Plus eighteen times seven,
Equals six cubed and not a bit more.
(Will Nediger, “Can Math Limericks Survive?”, Word Ways 37:3 [August 2004], 238.)
A tromino is a domino of three panels in a row, sized to cover three successive orthogonal squares of a checkerboard.
A monomino covers one square.
Is it possible to cover an 8×8 checkerboard with 21 trominoes and 1 monomino?
Prescott, press my Ascot waistcoat —
Let’s not risk it
Just to whisk it:
Yes, my Ascot waistcoat, Prescott.
Worn subfusc, it’s
Cool and dusk: it
Might be grass-cut
But it’s Ascot,
And it fits me like a gasket —
Ascot is the waistcoat, Prescott!
Please get
Off the spot of grease. Get
Going, Prescott —
Where’s that waistcoat?
It’s no task at
All, an Ascot:
Easy as to clean a musket
Or to dust an ivory tusk. It
Doesn’t take a lot of fuss. Get
To it, Prescott,
Since I ask it:
We can’t risk it —
Let’s not whisk it.
That’s the waistcoat;
Thank you, Prescott.
— David McCord
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