He multiplies upon the earth
In spite of all admonishing;
All censure his astonishing
And versatile unworth.
Upon the Reservation wide
We give for his inhabiting
He goes a-jackass rabbiting
To furnish his inside.
The hopper singing in the grass
He seizes with avidity:
He loves its tart acidity,
And gobbles all that pass.
He penetrates the spider’s veil,
Industriously pillages
The toads’ defenseless villages,
And shadows home the snail.
He lightly runs to earth the quaint
Red worm and, deftly troweling,
He makes it with his boweling
Familiarly acquaint.
He tracks the pine-nut to its lair,
Surrounds it with celerity,
Regards it with asperity—
Smiles, and it isn’t there!
I wish he’d open up a grin
Of adequate vivacity
And carrying capacity
To take his Agent in.
He held a book in his knotty paws,
And its title grand read he:
“The Chronicles of the Kings” it was,
By the History Companee.
“I’m a monarch,” he said
(But a tear he shed)
“And my picter here you see.
“Great and lasting is my renown,
However the wits may flout—
As wide almost as this blessed town”
(But he winced as if with gout).
“I paid ’em like sin
For to put me in,
But it’s O, and O, to be out!”
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.”
“Rénan 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:
‘Rénan’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 Rénan. “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.”
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, vanity or famine 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 wish, but, sir, if I had mine
’Twould to your editors mean something solemn.
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
To it which go persistent wrong,
And loving the debate’s delight
Calls one another names at sight.
Their disposition, too, accords
With fighting like they all was lords!
Sech impulses should be withstood:
’Tis scientific to be good.
“ ’Twas one of them, one night last week,
Rose up his figure for to speak:
‘Please, Mr. Chair, I’m holding here
A resolution which, I fear,
Some ancient fossils that has bust
Their cases and shook off their dust
To sit as Members here will find
Unpleasant, not to say unkind.’
And then he read it every word,
And silence fell on all which heard.
That resolution, wild and strange,
Proposed a fundamental change,
Which was that idiots no more
Could join us as they had before!
“No sooner was he seated than
The members rose up, to a man.
Each chap was primed with a reply
And tried to snatch the Chairman’s eye.
They stomped and shook their fists in air,
And, O, what words was uttered there!
“The Chair was silent, but at last
He hove up his proportions vast
And stilled them tumults with a look
By which the undauntedest was shook.
He smiled sarcastical and said:
‘If Argus was the Chair, instead
Of me, he’d lack enough of eyes
Each orator to recognize!
And since, denied a hearing, you
Might maybe undertake to do
Each other harm before you cease,
I’ve took some steps to keep the peace:
I’ve ordered out—alas, alas,
That Science e’er to such a pass
Should come!—I’ve ordered out—the gas!’
“O if a tongue or pen of fire
Was mine I could not tell entire
What the ensuin’ actions was!
When swollered up in darkness’ jaws
We fit and fit and fit and fit,
And everything we felt we hit!
We gouged, we scratched and we pulled hair,
And O, what words was uttered there!
And when at last the day dawn came
Three hundred Scientists was lame;
Two hundred others couldn’t stand,
They’d been so careless handled, and
One thousand at the very least
Was spread upon the floor deceased!
’Twere easy to exaggerate,
But lies is things I mortal hate.
“Such, friends, is the disaster sad
Which has befell
