'Three times a day I sings out clear The probs to all which wants to hear. 'Some weather stations run with light Frivolity is seldom right. 'A scientist from times remote, In Scienceville my birth is wrote. 'And when I h'ist the 'rainy' sign Jes' take your clo'es in off the line.' 'Not mine, O marvelous old man, The methods of your art to scan, 'Yet here no instruments there be— Nor 'ometer nor 'scope I see. 'Did you (if questions you permit) At the asylum leave your kit?' That strange old man with motion rude Grew to surprising altitude. 'Tools (and sarcazzems too) I scorns— I tells the weather by my corns. 'No doors and windows here you see— The wind and m'isture enters free. 'No fires nor lights, no wool nor fur Here falsifies the tempercher. 'My corns unleathered I expose To feel the rain's foretellin' throes. 'No stockin' from their ears keeps out The comin' tempest's warnin' shout. 'Sich delicacy some has got They know next summer's to be hot. 'This here one says (for that he's best): 'Storm center passin' to the west.' 'This feller's vitals is transfixed With frost for Janawary sixt'. 'One chap jes' now is occy'pied In fig'rin on next Fridy's tide. 'I've shaved this cuss so thin and true He'll spot a fog in South Peru. 'Sech are my tools, which ne'er a swell Observatory can excel. 'By long a-studyin' their throbs I catches onto all the probs.' Much more, no doubt, he would have said, But suddenly he turned and fled; For in mine eye's indignant green Lay storms that he had not foreseen, Till all at once, with silent squeals, His toes 'caught on' and told his heels.
T.A.H.
Yes, he was that, or that, as you prefer— Did so and so, though, faith, it wasn't all; Lived like a fool, or a philosopher. And had whatever's needful for a fall. As rough inflections on a planet merge In the true bend of the gigantic sphere, Nor mar the perfect circle of its verge, So in the survey of his worth the small Asperities of spirit disappear, Lost in the grander curves of character. He lately was hit hard: none knew but I The strength and terror of that ghastly stroke— Not even herself. He uttered not a cry, But set his teeth and made a revelry; Drank like a devil—staining sometimes red The goblet's edge; diced with his conscience; spread, Like Sisyphus, a feast for Death, and spoke His welcome in a tongue so long forgot That even his ancient guest remembered not What race had cursed him in it. Thus my friend Still conjugating with each failing sense The verb 'to die' in every mood and tense, Pursued his awful humor to the end. When like a stormy dawn the crimson broke From his white lips he smiled and mutely bled, And, having meanly lived, is grandly dead.
MY MONUMENT.
It is pleasant to think, as I'm watching my ink A-drying along my paper, That a monument fine will surely be mine When death has extinguished my taper. From each rhyming scribe of the journalist tribe Purged clean of all sentiments narrow, A pebble will mark his respect for the stark Stiff body that's under the barrow. By fellow-bards thrown, thus stone upon stone
