Like shuttlecock which battledores attack (One speeds it forward, one would drive it back) The trustful simpleton is twice unblest-- A rare good riddance, an unwelcome guest.
The glad consignor rubs his hands to think How duty is commuted into ink; The consignee (his hands he cannot rub-- He has the man upon them) mutters: "Cub!"
And straightway plans to lose him at the Club.
You know, good Killer, where this dunce abides-- The secret jungle where he writes and hides-- Though no exploring foot has e'er upstirred His human elephant's exhaustless herd.
Go, bring his blood! We'll drink it--letting fall A due libation to the gods of Gall.
On second thought, the gods may have it all.
ONE AND ONE ARE TWO
The trumpet sounded and the dead Came forth from earth and ocean, And Pickering arose and sped Aloft with wobbling motion.
"What makes him fly lop-sided?" cried A soul of the elected.
"One ear was wax," a rogue replied, "And isn't resurrected."
Below him on the pitted plain, By his abandoned hollow, His hair and teeth tried all in vain The rest of him to follow.
Saint Peter, seeing him ascend, Came forward to the wicket, And said: "My mutilated friend, I'll thank you for your ticket."
"The _Call_," said Pickering, his hand To reach the latch extended.
Said Peter, affable and bland: "The free-list is suspended--
"What claim have you that's valid here?"
That ancient vilifier Reflected; then, with look austere, Replied: "I am a liar."
Said Peter: "That is simple, neat And candid Anglo-Saxon, But--well, come in, and take a seat Up there by Colonel Jackson."
MONTAGUE LEVERSON
As some enormous violet that towers Colossal o'er the heads of lowlier flowers-- Its giant petals royally displayed, And casting half the landscape into shade; Delivering its odors, like the blows Of some strong slugger, at the public nose; Pride of two Nations--for a single State Would scarce suffice to sprout a plant so great; So Leverson's humility, outgrown The meaner virtues that he deigns to own, To the high skies its great corolla rears, O'ertopping all he has except his ears.
THE WOFUL TALE OF MR. PETERS
I should like, good friends, to mention the disaster which befell Mr. William Perry Peters, of the town of Muscatel, Whose fate is full of meaning, if correctly understood-- Admonition to the haughty, consolation to the good.
It happened in the hot snap which we recently incurred, When 'twas warm enough to carbonize the feathers of a bird, And men exclaimed: "By Hunky!" who were bad enough to swear, And pious persons supervised their adjectives with care.
Mr. Peters was a pedagogue of honor and repute, His learning comprehensive, multifarious, minute.
It was commonly conceded in the section whence he came That the man who played against him needed knowledge of the game.
And some there were who whispered, in the town of Muscatel, That besides the game of Draw he knew Orthography as well; Though, the school directors, frigidly contemning that as stuff, Thought that Draw (and maybe Spelling, if it pleased him) was enough.
Withal, he was a haughty man--indubitably great, But too vain of his attainments and his power in debate.
His mien was contumelious to men of lesser gift: "It's only _me_," he said, "can give the human mind a lift.
"Before a proper audience, if ever I've a chance, You'll see me chipping in, the cause of Learning to advance.
Just let me have a decent chance to back my mental hand And I'll come to center lightly in a way they'll understand."
Such was William Perry Peters, and I feel a poignant sense Of grief that I'm unable to employ the present tense; But Providence disposes, be our scheming what it may, And disposed of Mr. Peters in a cold, regardless way.
It occurred in San Francisco, whither Mr. Peters came In the cause of Education, feeling still the holy flame Of ambition to assist in lifting up the human mind To a higher plane of knowledge than its Architect designed.
He attended the convention of the pedagogic host; He was first in the Pavilion, he was last to leave his post.
For days and days he narrowly observed the Chairman's eye, His efforts ineffectual to catch it on the fly.
The blessed moment came at last: the Chairman tipped his head.
"The gentleman from ah--um--er," that functionary said.
The gentleman from ah--um--er reflected with a grin: "They'll know me better by-and-by, when I'm a-chipping in."
So William Perry Peters mounted cheerfully his feet-- And straightway was aglow with an incalculable heat!
His face was as effulgent as a human face could be, And caloric emanated from his whole periphery;
For he felt himself the focus of non-Muscatelish eyes, And the pain of their convergence was a terror and surprise.
As with pitiless impaction all their heat-waves on him broke He was seen to be evolving awful quantities of smoke!
"Put him out!" cried all in chorus; but the meaning wasn't clear Of that succoring suggestion to his obfuscated ear; And it notably augmented his incinerating glow To regard himself excessive, or in any way _de trop_.
Gone was all his wild ambition to lift up the human mind!-- Gone the words he would have uttered!--gone the thought that lay behind!
For "words that burn" may be consumed in a superior flame, And "thoughts that breathe" may breathe their last, and die a death of shame.
He'd known himself a shining light, but never had he known Himself so very luminous as now he knew he shone.
"A pillar, I, of fire," he'd said, "to guide my race will be;"
And now that very inconvenient thing to him was he.
He stood there all irresolute; the seconds went and came; The minutes passed and did but add fresh fuel to his flame.
How long he stood he knew not--'twas a century or more-- And then that incandescent man levanted for the door!
He darted like a comet from the building to the street, Where Fahrenheit attested ninety-five degrees of heat.
Vicissitudes of climate make the tenure of the breath Precarious, and William Perry Peters froze to death!
TWIN UNWORTHIES
Ye parasites that to the rich men stick, As to the fattest sheep the thrifty tick-- Ed'ard to Stanford and to Crocker Ben (To Ben and Ed'ard many meaner men, And lice to these)--who do the kind of work That thieves would have the honesty to shirk-- Whose wages are that your employers own The fat that reeks upon your every bone And deigns to ask (the flattery how sweet!) About its health and how it stands the heat,-- Hail and farewell! I meant to write about you, But, no, my page is cleaner far without you.