(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!"
ONE OF THE REDEEMED
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."
"Renan 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: 'Renan'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 Renan. "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_."
A CRITIC
[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, fame or famine smartly 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 wishes, but if I had mine 'Twould to your editor mean something solemn.
A QUESTION OF ELIGIBILITY
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 debates' 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!'