Black Beetles in Amber

ONE OF THE REDEEMED

Saint Peter, standing at the Gate, beheld
A soul whose body Death had lately felled.
A pleasant soul as ever was, he seemed:
His step was joyous and his visage beamed.
'Good morning, Peter.' There was just a touch
Of foreign accent, but not overmuch.
The Saint bent gravely, like a stately tree,
And said: 'You have the advantage, sir, of me.'
'Renan of Paris,' said the immortal part—
'A master of the literary art.
'I'm somewhat famous, too, I grieve to tell,
As controversialist and infidel.'
'That's of no consequence,' the Saint replied,
'Why, I myself my Master once denied.
'No one up here cares anything for that.
But is there nothing you were always at?
'It seems to me you were accused one day
Of something—what it was I can't just say.'
'Quite likely,' said the other; 'but I swear
My life was irreproachable and fair.'
Just then a soul appeared upon the wall,
Singing a hymn as loud as he could bawl.
About his head a golden halo gleamed,
As well befitted one of the redeemed.
A harp he bore and vigorously thumbed,
Strumming he sang, and, singing, ever strummed.
His countenance, suffused with holy pride,
Glowed like a pumpkin with a light inside.
'Ah! that's the chap,' said Peter, 'who declares:
'Renan's a rake and drunkard—smokes and swears.'
'Yes, that's the fellow—he's a preacher—came
From San Francisco. Mansfield was his name.'
'Do you believe him?' said Renan. 'Great Scott!
Believe? Believe the blackguard? Of course not!
'Just walk right in and make yourself at home.
And if he pecks at you I'll cut his comb.
'He's only here because the Devil swore
He wouldn't have him, for the smile he wore.'
Resting his eyes one moment on that proof
Of saving grace, the Frenchman turned aloof,
And stepping down from cloud to cloud, said he:
'Thank you, monsieur,—I'll see if he'll have me.'

A CRITIC

    [Apparently the Cleveland Leader is not a good judge of poetry.

The Morning Call

That from you, neighbor! to whose vacant lot
  Each rhyming literary knacker scourges
His cart-compelling Pegasus to trot,
  As folly, fame or famine smartly urges?
Admonished by the stimulating goad,
  How gaily, lo! the spavined crow-bait prances—
Its cart before it—eager to unload
  The dead-dog sentiments and swill-tub fancies.
Gravely the sweating scavenger pulls out
  The tail-board of his curst imagination,
Shoots all his rascal rubbish, and, no doubt,
  Thanks Fortune for so good a dumping-station.
To improve your property, the vile cascade
  Your thrift invites—to make a higher level.
In vain: with tons of garbage overlaid,
  Your baseless bog sinks slowly to the devil.
'Rubbish may be shot here'—familiar sign!
  I seem to see it in your every column.
You have your wishes, but if I had mine
  'Twould to your editor mean something solemn.

A QUESTION OF ELIGIBILITY

It was a bruised and battered chap
The victim of some dire mishap,
Who sat upon a rock and spent
His breath in this ungay lament:
'Some wars—I've frequent heard of such—
Has beat the everlastin' Dutch!
But never fight was fit by man
To equal this which has began
In our (I'm in it, if you please)
Academy of Sciences.
For there is various gents belong