DOWN AMONG THE DEAD MEN
Within my dark and narrow bed I rested well, new-laid: I heard above my fleshless head The grinding of a spade.
A gruffer note ensued and grew To harsh and harsher strains: The poet Welcker then I knew Was "snatching" my remains.
"O Welcker, let your hand be stayed And leave me here in peace.
Of your revenge you should have made An end with my decease."
"Hush, Mouldyshanks, and hear my moan: I once, as you're aware, Was eminent in letters--known And honored everywhere.
"My splendor made all Berkeley bright And Sacramento blind.
Men swore no writer e'er could write Like me--if I'd a mind.
"With honors all insatiate, With curst ambition smit, Too far, alas! I tempted fate-- I _published_ what I'd writ!
"Good Heaven! with what a hunger wild Oblivion swallows fame!
Men who have known me from a child Forget my very name!
"Even creditors with searching looks My face cannot recall; My heaviest one--he prints my books-- Oblivious most of all.
"O I should feel a sweet content If one poor dun his claim Would bring to me for settlement, And bully me by name.
"My dog is at my gate forlorn; It howls through all the night, And when I greet it in the morn It answers with a bite!"
"O Poet, what in Satan's name To me's all this ado?
Will snatching me restore the fame That printing snatched from you?"
"Peace, dread Remains; I'm not about To do a deed of sin.
I come not here to hale you out-- I'm trying to get in."
THE LAST MAN
I dreamed that Gabriel took his horn On Resurrection's fateful morn, And lighting upon Laurel Hill Blew long, blew loud, blew high and shrill.
The houses compassing the ground Rattled their windows at the sound.
But no one rose. "Alas!" said he, "What lazy bones these mortals be!"
Again he plied the horn, again Deflating both his lungs in vain; Then stood astonished and chagrined At raising nothing but the wind.
At last he caught the tranquil eye Of an observer standing by-- Last of mankind, not doomed to die.
To him thus Gabriel: "Sir, I pray This mystery you'll clear away.
Why do I sound my note in vain?
Why spring they not from out the plain?
Where's Luning, Blythe and Michael Reese, Magee, who ran the _Golden Fleece?_ Where's Asa Fisk? Jim Phelan, who Was thought to know a thing or two Of land which rose but never sank?
Where's Con O'Conor of the Bank, And all who consecrated lands Of old by laying on of hands?
I ask of them because their worth Was known in all they wished--the earth.
Brisk boomers once, alert and wise, Why don't they rise, why don't they rise?"
The man replied: "Reburied long With others of the shrouded throng In San Mateo--carted there And dumped promiscuous, anywhere, In holes and trenches--all misfits-- Mixed up with one another's bits: One's back-bone with another's shin, A third one's skull with a fourth one's grin-- Your eye was never, never fixed Upon a company so mixed!
Go now among them there and blow: 'Twill be as good as any show To see them, when they hear the tones, Compiling one another's bones!
But here 'tis vain to sound and wait: Naught rises here but real estate.
I own it all and shan't disgorge.
Don't know me? I am Henry George."
ARBOR DAY
Hasten, children, black and white-- Celebrate the yearly rite.
Every pupil plant a tree: It will grow some day to be Big and strong enough to bear A School Director hanging there.
THE PIUTE
Unbeautiful is the Piute!
Howe'er bedecked with bravery, His person is unsavory-- Of soap he's destitute.
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.
FAME
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"