Yes, the Summer girl is flirting on the beach, With a him. And the damboy is a-climbing for the peach, On the limb; Yes, the bullfrog is a-croaking And the dudelet is a-smoking Cigarettes; And the hackman is a-hacking And the showman is a-cracking Up his pets; Yes, the Jersey 'skeeter flits along the shore And the snapdog—we have heard it o'er and o'er; Yes, my poet, Well we know it— Know the spooners how they spoon In the bright Dollar light Of the country tavern moon; Yes, the caterpillars fall From the trees (we know it all), And with beetles all the shelves Are alive. Please unbuttonhole us—O, Have the grace to let us go, For we know How you Summer poets thrive, By the recapitulation And insistent iteration Of the wondrous doings incident to Life Among Ourselves! So, I pray you stop the fervor and the fuss. For you, poor human linnet, There's a half a living in it, But there's not a copper cent in it for us!
ARTHUR McEWEN.
Posterity with all its eyes Will come and view him where he lies. Then, turning from the scene away With a concerted shrug, will say: 'H'm, Scarabaeus Sisyphus— What interest has that to us? We can't admire at all, at all, A tumble-bug without its ball.' And then a sage will rise and say: 'Good friends, you err—turn back, I pray: This freak that you unwisely shun Is bug and ball rolled into one.'
CHARLES AND PETER.
Ere Gabriel's note to silence died All graves of men were gaping wide. Then Charles A. Dana, of 'The Sun,' Rose slowly from the deepest one. 'The dead in Christ rise first, 't is writ,' Quoth he—'ick, bick, ban, doe,—I'm It!' (His headstone, footstone, counted slow, Were 'ick' and 'bick,' he 'ban' and 'doe': Of beating Nick the subtle art Was part of his immortal part.) Then straight to Heaven he took his flight, Arriving at the Gates of Light. There Warden Peter, in the throes Of sleep, lay roaring in the nose. 'Get up, you sluggard!' Dana cried— 'I've an engagement there inside.' The Saint arose and scratched his head. 'I recollect your face,' he said. '(And, pardon me, 't is rather hard), But——' Dana handed him a card. 'Ah, yes, I now remember—bless My soul, how dull I am I—yes, yes, 'We've nothing better here than bliss. Walk in. But I must tell you this: 'We've rest and comfort, though, and peace.' 'H'm—puddles,' Dana said, 'for geese. 'Have you in Heaven no Hell?' 'Why, no,' Said Peter, 'nor, in truth, below. ''T is not included in our scheme— 'T is but a preacher's idle dream.' The great man slowly moved away. 'I'll call,' he said, 'another day. 'On earth I played it, o'er and o'er,
