Shapes of Clay

    The key, the frown as pitiless as night,
    That slays intending trespassers at sight,
    And, at his side in easy reach, the curled
  Interrogation points all ready to be hurled.
    Straight up the shining cloudway (it so chanced
    No others were about) a soul advanced—
    A fat, orbicular and jolly soul
    With laughter-lines upon each rosy jowl—
    A monk so prepossessing that the saint
    Admired him, breathless, until weak and faint,
    Forgot his frown and all his questions too,
    Forgoing even the customary 'Who?'—
    Threw wide the gate and, with a friendly grin,
  Said, ''Tis a very humble home, but pray walk in.'
    The soul smiled pleasantly. 'Excuse me, please—
    Who's in there?' By insensible degrees
    The impudence dispelled the saint's esteem,
    As growing snores annihilate a dream.
    The frown began to blacken on his brow,
    His hand to reach for 'Whence?' and 'Why?' and 'How?'
    'O, no offense, I hope,' the soul explained;
    'I'm rather—well, particular. I've strained
    A point in coming here at all; 'tis said
    That Susan Anthony (I hear she's dead
    At last) and all her followers are here.
  As company, they'd be—confess it—rather queer.'
    The saint replied, his rising anger past:
    'What can I do?—the law is hard-and-fast,
    Albeit unwritten and on earth unknown—
    An oral order issued from the Throne.
    By but one sin has Woman e'er incurred
  God's wrath. To accuse Them Loud of that would be absurd.'
  That friar sighed, but, calling up a smile,
  Said, slowly turning on his heel the while:
  'Farewell, my friend. Put up the chain and bar—
  I'm going, so please you, where the pretty women are.'
1895.

THE OPPOSING SEX.

  The Widows of Ashur
    Are loud in their wailing:
  'No longer the 'masher'
  Sees Widows of Ashur!'
  So each is a lasher
    Of Man's smallest failing.
  The Widows of Ashur
    Are loud in their wailing.
  The Cave of Adullam,
    That home of reviling—
  No wooing can gull 'em
  In Cave of Adullam.
  No angel can lull 'em
    To cease their defiling
  The Cave of Adullam,
    That home of reviling.
  At men they are cursing—
    The Widows of Ashur;
  Themselves, too, for nursing
  The men they are cursing.
  The praise they're rehearsing
    Of every slasher
  At men. They are cursing
    The Widows of Ashur.

A WHIPPER-IN.

Commissioner of Pensions Dudley has established a Sunday-school and declares he will remove any clerk in his department who does not regularly attend.

N.Y. World.]

  Dudley, great placeman, man of mark and note,
    Worthy of honor from a feeble pen
    Blunted in service of all true, good men,
  You serve the Lord—in courses, table d'hote:
  Au, naturel, as well as a la Nick—
    'Eat and be thankful, though it make you sick.'
  O, truly pious caterer, forbear
    To push the Saviour and Him crucified
    (Brochette you'd call it) into their inside
  Who're all unused to such ambrosial fare.
  The stomach of the soul makes quick revulsion
  Of aught that it has taken on compulsion.
  I search the Scriptures, but I do not find
    That e'er the Spirit beats with angry wings
    For entrance to the heart, but sits and sings