Black Beetles in Amber

   Of the marvelous gift—
The wild, weird, wonderful gift of gab!

IGNIS FATUUS

Weep, weep, each loyal partisan,
  For Buckley, king of hearts;
A most accomplished man; a man
Of parts—of foreign parts.
Long years he ruled with gentle sway,
  Nor grew his glory dim;
And he would be with us to-day
  If we were but with him.
Men wondered at his going off
  In such a sudden way;
'Twas thought, as he had come to scoff
  He would remain to prey.
Since he is gone we're all agreed
  That he is what men call
A crook: his very steps, indeed,
  Are bent—to Montreal.
So let our tears unhindered flow,
  Our sighs and groans have way:
It matters not how much we Oh!—
  The devil is to pay.

FROM TOP TO BOTTOM

Japan has 73,759 Buddhist priests, 'most of whom,' says a Christian missionary, 'are grossly ignorant, and many of them lead scandalous lives.'

O Buddha, had you but foreknown
  The vices of your priesthood
It would have made you twist and moan
  As any wounded beast would.
You would have damned the entire lot
And turned a Christian, would you not?
There were no Christians, I'll allow,
  In your day; that would only
Have brought distinction. Even now
  A Christian might feel lonely.
All take the name, but facts are things
As stubborn as the will of kings.
The priests were ignorant and low
  When ridiculed by Lucian;
The records, could we read, might show
  The same of times Confucian.
And yet the fact I can't disguise
That Deacon Rankin's good and wise.
'Tis true he is not quite a priest,
  Nor more than half a preacher;
But he exhorts as loud at least
  As any living creature.
And when the plate is passed about
He never takes a penny out.
From Buddha down to Rankin! There,—
  I never did intend to.
This pen's a buzzard's quill, I swear,
  Such subjects to descend to.
When from the humming-bird I've wrung
A plume I'll write of Mike de Young.

AN IDLER

Who told Creed Haymond he was witty?—who
Had nothing better in this world to do?
Could no greased pig's appeal to his embrace
Kindle his ardor for the friendly chase?
Did no dead dog upon a vacant lot,
Bloated and bald, or curdled in a clot,
Stir his compassion and inspire his arms
To hide from human eyes its faded charms?
If not to works of piety inclined,
Then recreation might have claimed his mind.
The harmless game that shows the feline greed
To cinch the shorts and make the market bleed[A]
Is better sport than victimizing Creed;
And a far livelier satisfaction comes
Of knowing Simon, autocrat of thumbs.[B]
If neither worthy work nor play command