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.
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 That 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 That 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 That 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."
GENESIS
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!
LLEWELLEN 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 everywhere!
You shall hear her at your back, And, your hunted visage turning, Fancy that her eyes are burning Like a tiger's on your track!
You shall hear her in the breeze Whispering to summer trees.
You shall hear her calling, calling To your spirit through the storm When the giant billows form And the splintered lightning, falling Down the heights of Heaven, appalling, Splendors all the tossing seas!
On your bed at night reclining, Stars into your chamber shining As they roll around the Pole, None their purposes divining, Shall appear to search your soul, And to gild the mark of Cain That burns into your tortured brain!
And the dead man's eyes shall ever Meet your own wherever you, Desperate, shall turn you to, And you shall escape them never!
By your heritage of guilt; By the blood that you have spilt; By the Law that you have broken; By the terrible red token That you bear upon your brow; By the awful sentence spoken And irrevocable vow Which consigns you to a living Death and to the unforgiving Furies who avenge your crime Through the periods of time; By that dread eternal doom Hinted in your future's gloom, As the flames infernal tell Of their power and perfection In their wavering reflection On the battlements of Hell; By the mercy you denied, I condemn your guilty soul In your body to abide, Like a serpent in a hole!
THE SUNSET GUN.
Off Santa Cruz the western wave Was crimson as with blood: The sun was sinking to his grave Beneath that angry flood.
Sir Walter Turnbull, brave and stout, Then shouted, "Ho! lads; run-- The powder and the ball bring out To fire the sunset gun.
"That punctual orb did ne'er omit To keep, by land or sea, Its every engagement; it Shall never wait for me."
Behold the black-mouthed cannon stand, Ready with charge and prime, The lanyard in the gunner's hand.
Sir Walter waits the time.
The glowing orb sinks in the sea, And clouds of steam aspire, Then fade, and the horizon's free.
Sir Walter thunders: "Fire!"
The gunner pulls--the lanyard parts And not a sound ensues.
The beating of ten thousand hearts Was heard at Santa Cruz!
Off Santa Cruz the western wave Was crimson as with blood; The sun, with visage stern and grave, Came back from out the flood.
THE "VIDUATE DAME"
'Tis the widow of Thomas Blythe, And she goeth upon the spree, And red are cheeks of the bystanders For her acts are light and free.
In a seven-ounce costume The widow of Thomas Blythe, Y-perched high on the window ledge, The difficult can-can tryeth.
Ten constables they essay To bate the dame's halloing.
With the widow of Thomas Blythe Their hands are overflowing,
And they cry: "Call the National Guard To quell this parlous muss-- For all of the widows of Thomas Blythe Are upon the spree and us!"
O long shall the eerie tale be told By that posse's surviving tithe; And with tears bedewed he'll sing this rude Ballad of the widow of Thomas Blythe.
FOUR OF A KIND
ROBERT F. MORROW
Dear man! although a stranger and a foe To soft affection's humanizing glow; Although untaught how manly hearts may throb With more desires than the desire to rob; Although as void of tenderness as wit, And owning nothing soft but Maurice Schmitt; Although polluted, shunned and in disgrace, You fill me with a passion to embrace!
Attentive to your look, your smile, your beck, I watch and wait to fall upon your neck.
Lord of my love, and idol of my hope, You are my Valentine, and I'm A ROPE.