Then, in this second month, most motherlike again, The frown assumed gives now and then a place To soft indulgent glances, lessening the pain, And hints of spring and pardon light her face.
_A CHANGE OF AMBITION_
HORATIUS at the bridge, and he Who fought at old Thermopylae;
Great Samson and his potent bone By which the Philistines were slone;
Small David with his wondrous aim That did for him of giant frame;
J. Caesar in his Gallic scraps That made him lord of other chaps;
Sweet William, called the Conqueror, Who made the Briton sick of war;
King Hal the Fifth, who nobly fought And thrashed the foe at Agincourt;
Old Bonaparte, and Washington, And Frederick, and Wellington,
Decatur, Nelson, Fighting Joe, And Farragut, and Grant, and, oh,
A thousand other heroes I Have wished I were in days gone by-
Can take their laurels from my door, For I don't want 'em any more.
The truth will out; it can't be hid; The doughty deed that Dewey did,
In that far distant Spanish sea, Is really good enough for me.
The grammar's bad, but, O my son, I wish I'd did what Dewey done!
_MESSAGE FROM MAHATMAS_
ONSET BAY, MASSACHUSETTS, _May 24, 18-._-Theosophists and others at Onset Bay Camp Grounds have been greatly excited of late by a message which has been received from the Mahatmas, Koot Hoomi, and his partner, who are summering in the desert of Gobi. The message is of considerable length, and contains much that is purely personal.-_Daily Newspaper_.
SOUND the timbrel, beat the drum!
Word from the Mahatma's come.
Straight from Hoomi Koot & Co.
Comes the note to us below, Full of joy and gossiping.
Hoomi Koot is summering In the desert waste of Gobi, In a cottage of adobe.
All the little Koots are well.
Tommy Koot has learned to spell.
Mrs. Koot is busy on Papers on "The Great Anon,"
Which by special cable soon, From her workshop in the moon, Will be sent to us below By grand Hoomi Koot & Co.
We are told that Maggie Koot Looks well in her golfing suit; And her brand-new Astral Bike Is the best they've seen this cike- Cike is slang for cycle, so I have learned from Koot & Co.
Soon she's going to take a run Out from Gobi to the sun, After which she thinks to race For the Championship of Space, And a trophy given by The Grand High Pasupati.
Baby Koot has learned to walk, And likewise, 'tis said, to talk; But, to Mrs. Koot's dismay, Seems to have a funny way: Full of questions, "Why and How,"
All about the sacred cow.
Questions of a flippant ilk, Like "Is Buddha made of milk?"
Questions void of answers spite Of his parents' second sight.
What to do with Baby Koot Worries all the whole cahoot.
Finally the message ends With best love to all our friends.
Give our enemies a twist.
Let each true theoso-fist Strike a thunder-hitting blow For the firm of Koot & Co.; Strike till black is every eye Doubting our theosophy.
And impress on every tribe _Now's the season to subscribe._ Guard against the coming storm; Keep our astral bodies warm.
Give us bonnets for the head; Keep our spirit stomachs fed.
Let your glad remittance go Out to Hoomi Koot & Co., Through their Agents on the earth, Men and women full of worth; And when next a message comes From the Koots down to their chums, Those who've paid their money down Will receive a harp and crown.
Step up lively! now's the time For your nickel and your dime, To provide for winter suits For the grand Mahatma Koots.
Furthermore, be not too brash, Send it up in solid cash.
Astral money, it may be, Circulates in theory; But 'tis best to give us cold, Bilious, drossy, filthy gold.
All our blessings to you go.
Yours, for health, H. Koots & Co.
_THE GOLD-SEEKERS_
GOLD, gold, gold!
What care we for hunger and cold?
What care we for the moil and strife, Or the thousands of foes to health and life, When there's gold for the mighty, and gold for the meek, And gold for whoever shall dare to seek?
Untold Is the gold; And it lies in the reach of the man that's bold: In the hands of the man who dares to face The death in the blast, that blows apace; That withers the leaves on the forest tree; That fetters with ice all the northern sea; That chills all the green on the fair earth's breast, And as certainly kills as the un-stayed pest.
It lies in the hands of the man who'd sell His hold on his life for an ice-bound hell.
What care we for the fevered brain That's filled with ravings and thoughts insane, So long as we hold In our hands the gold?- The glistening, glittering, ghastly gold That comes at the end of the hunger and cold; That comes at the end of the awful thirst; That comes through the pain and torture accurst Of limbs that are racked and minds o'erthrown, The gold lies there and is all our own, Be we mighty or meek, If we do but seek.
For the hunger is sweet and the cold is fair To the man whose riches are past compare; And the o'erthrown mind is as good as sane, And a joy to the limbs is the racking pain, If the gold is there.
And they say, if you fail, in your dying day All the tears, all the troubles, are wiped away By the fever-thought of your shattered mind That a cruel world has at last grown kind; That your hands o'errun with the clinking gold, With nuggets of weight and of worth untold, And your vacant eyes Gloat o'er the riches of Paradise!
_ODE TO A POLITICIAN_
ALL hail to thee, O son of aeolus!
All hail to thee, most high Borean lord!
The lineal descendant of the Winds art thou.