spill.
Shall Hate be throned on Bunker Hill,
Yet Love abide in Seven Pines?
A Culinary Candidate
A cook adorned with paper cap,
Or waiter with a tray,
May be a worthy kind of chap
In his way,
But when we want one for Recorder,
Then, Mr. Walton, take our order.
To One Acquitted
Sir, you have killed a man and you are free—
That is, your hanging ne’er will come about;
For I’ve observed when jurors disagree
’Tis not as ’tis when other thieves fall out.
Some honest men are in the case, no doubt,
But none come by their own—not even the chap
Whose honest office is to spring the trap.
Some needy tramp, I think, is deputized
That lowly function to perform—although
I must confess I am not well advised
Concerning that: I ne’er did undergo
A hanging; but if I am right you owe
The customary perquisite to some
Poor shivering and disappointed “bum.”
If Californian hangmen are too proud
To wear the clothing of the wretch they string,
And the good ancient custom’s been allowed
To lapse; or if so seldom murderers swing
In this good land that there is no such thing
As custom in the case, the truth we reach is:
You’ve forfeited your life, but not your breeches.
Content
One day when Satan visited the earth
In order that his eyes might feed his mirth,
A loyal follower in sorrow said,
“Father of Falsehood, to our idols wed
We rear memorials in bronze and stone
To every kind of mortal greatness known;
But not in this thy realm stands anywhere
A monument or statue to declare
Thy greater glory.” With the modest mien
Of violet that loves to bloom unseen,
Satan replied: “All earthly fame I shun,
Content with consciousness of work well done.
Statues to heroes! Mine the humble glory
To tell on every pedestal the story.”
At the Observatory
Mahatma Holden, Autocrat of Stars,
Fixed to the telescope his curious eye
And waited for some great phenomenon
To seek his field of vision. Years and years,
Retiring early, rising with the sun,
With patience proof against defeat, he still
Had sought some grand discovery; and still,
Dogging the footsteps of endeavor, came
Grim disappointment and in mockery
Derided him. But now, even as he gazed,
A great white light crept up the sky, and lo!
Into the telescope’s illumined ken
Swam with a stately grace a noble orb,
And paused in mid-field of the mighty tube!
Mahatma Holden, Autocrat of Stars,
Was found next morn beneath the instrument,
Senseless and motionless as one that’s dead.
“By some emotion overcome,” said one
(Sometime physician to the Ghug of Smat)
Who with sharp stimulants and kindly words
Strove to revive him. Scarcely had the fresh
And wholesome air saluted both his lungs
Than, “Paper!” cried he—“paper, pen and ink!
Quick, ere the glorious memory fades! Ah, friends,
Not all in vain my vigils and my skill
To read the secrets of the upper deep:
At last I’m famous and my name shall ring
Adown the centuries unlinked with theirs,
My menials, Burnham, Bar—” he faltered then,
Yet with a mighty effort peaced himself,
Mastered his spirit, calmly gazed about
And, with angelic dignity, explained:
“I’ve found the Moon!” And it was even so.
The Oleomargarine Man
Once—in the county of Marin,
Where milk is sold to purchase gin—
Renowned for butter and renowned
For fourteen ounces to the pound—
A bull stood watching every turn
Of Mr. Wilson with a churn,
As that deigning worthy stalked
About him, eying as he walked
El Toro’s sleek and silken hide,
His neck, his flank and all beside;
Thinking with secret joy: “I’ll spread
This mammal on a slice of bread!”
Soon Mr. Wilson’s keen concern
To get the creature in his churn
Unhorsed his caution—made him blind
To the fell vigor of bullkind,
Till, filled with valor to the teeth,
He drew his dasher from its sheath
And bravely brandished it; the while
He smiled a dark, portentous smile;
A deep, sepulchral smile; a wide
And open smile, which, at his side,
The churn to copy vainly tried;
A smile so like the dawn of doom
That all the field was palled in gloom,
And all the trees within a mile,
As tribute to that awful smile,
Made haste, with loyalty discreet,
To fling their shadows at his feet.
Then rose his battle-cry: “I’ll spread
This mammal on a slice of bread!”
To such a night the day had turned
That Taurus dimly was discerned.
He wore so meek and grave an air
It seemed as if, engaged in prayer
This thunderbolt incarnate had
No thought of anything that’s bad:
This concentrated earthquake stood
And gave his mind to being good.
Lightly and low he drew his breath—
This magazine of sudden death!
All this the thrifty Wilson’s glance
Took in, and, crying, “Now’s my chance!”
Upon the bull he sprang amain
To put him in his churn. Again
Rang out his battle-yell: “I’ll spread
This mammal on a slice of bread!”
Sing, Muse, that battle-royal—sing
The deeds that made the region ring:
The blows, the bellowing, the cries,
The dust that darkened all the skies,
The thunders of the contest, all!
Nay, none of these things did befall.
A yell there was—a rush—no more:
El Toro, tranquil as before,
Still stood there basking in the sun,
Nor of his legs had shifted one—
Stood there and conjured up his cud
And meekly munched it. Scenes of blood
Had little charm for him. His head
He merely nodded as he said:
“I’ve spread that butterman upon
A slice of Southern Oregon.”
The Genesis of Crime
God said, “Let there be Crime,” and the command
Brought Satan, leading Stoneman by the hand.
“Why, that’s Stupidity, not Crime,” said God—
“Bring what I ordered.” Satan with a nod
Replied, “This is one element—when I
The other—Opportunity—supply
In just equivalent, the two’ll affine
And in a chemical embrace combine
And Crime result—for Crime can only be
Stupiditate of Opportunity.”
So leaving Stoneman (not as yet endowed
With soul) in special session on a cloud,
Nick to his sooty laboratory went,
Returning soon with t’other element.
“Here’s Opportunity,” he said, and put
Pen, ink, and paper down at Stoneman’s foot.
He seized them—Heaven was filled with fires and thunders,
And Crime was added to Creation’s wonders!
Llewellyn Powell
Villain, when the word is spoken,
And your chains at last are broken;
When the gibbet’s chilling shade
Ceases darkly to enfold you,
And the angel who enrolled you
As a master of the trade
Of assassination sadly
Blots the record he has made,
And your name and title paints
In the calendar of saints;
When the devils, dancing madly
In the midmost Hell, are very
Multitudinously merry—
Then beware, beware, beware!
Nemesis is
