Chapter 3

"I calls the turn, and can declare Jes' when she'll storm and when she'll fair.

"Three times a day I sings out clear The probs to all which wants to hear.

"Some weather stations run with light Frivolity is seldom right.

"A scientist from times remote, In Scienceville my birth is wrote.

"And when I h'ist the 'rainy' sign Jes' take your clo'es in off the line."

"Not mine, O marvelous old man, The methods of your art to scan,

"Yet here no instruments there be-- Nor 'ometer nor 'scope I see.

"Did you (if questions you permit) At the asylum leave your kit?"

That strange old man with motion rude Grew to surprising altitude.

"Tools (and sarcazzems too) I scorns-- I tells the weather by my corns.

"No doors and windows here you see-- The wind and m'isture enters free.

"No fires nor lights, no wool nor fur Here falsifies the tempercher.

"My corns unleathered I expose To feel the rain's foretellin' throes.

"No stockin' from their ears keeps out The comin' tempest's warnin' shout.

"Sich delicacy some has got They know next summer's to be hot.

"This here one says (for that he's best): 'Storm center passin' to the west.'

"This feller's vitals is transfixed With frost for Janawary sixt'.

"One chap jes' now is occy'pied In fig'rin on next Fridy's tide.

"I've shaved this cuss so thin and true He'll spot a fog in South Peru.

"Sech are my tools, which ne'er a swell Observatory can excel.

"By long a-studyin' their throbs I catches onto all the probs."

Much more, no doubt, he would have said, But suddenly he turned and fled;

For in mine eye's indignant green Lay storms that he had not foreseen,

Till all at once, with silent squeals, His toes "caught on" and told his heels.

T.A.H.

Yes, he was that, or that, as you prefer-- Did so and so, though, faith, it wasn't all; Lived like a fool, or a philosopher. And had whatever's needful for a fall. As rough inflections on a planet merge In the true bend of the gigantic sphere, Nor mar the perfect circle of its verge, So in the survey of his worth the small Asperities of spirit disappear, Lost in the grander curves of character. He lately was hit hard: none knew but I The strength and terror of that ghastly stroke-- Not even herself. He uttered not a cry, But set his teeth and made a revelry; Drank like a devil--staining sometimes red The goblet's edge; diced with his conscience; spread, Like Sisyphus, a feast for Death, and spoke His welcome in a tongue so long forgot That even his ancient guest remembered not What race had cursed him in it. Thus my friend Still conjugating with each failing sense The verb "to die" in every mood and tense, Pursued his awful humor to the end. When like a stormy dawn the crimson broke From his white lips he smiled and mutely bled, And, having meanly lived, is grandly dead.

MY MONUMENT.

It is pleasant to think, as I'm watching my ink A-drying along my paper, That a monument fine will surely be mine When death has extinguished my taper.

From each rhyming scribe of the journalist tribe Purged clean of all sentiments narrow, A pebble will mark his respect for the stark Stiff body that's under the barrow.

By fellow-bards thrown, thus stone upon stone Will make my celebrity deathless. O, I wish I could think, as I gaze at my ink, They'd wait till my carcass is breathless.

MAD.

O ye who push and fight To hear a wanton sing-- Who utter the delight That has the bogus ring,--

O men mature in years, In understanding young, The membranes of whose ears She tickles with her tongue,--

O wives and daughters sweet, Who call it love of art To kiss a woman's feet That crush a woman's heart,--

O prudent dams and sires, Your docile young who bring To see how man admires A sinner if she sing,--

O husbands who impart To each assenting spouse The lesson that shall start The buds upon your brows,--

All whose applauding hands Assist to rear the fame That throws o'er all the lands The shadow of its shame,--

Go drag her car!--the mud Through which its axle rolls Is partly human blood And partly human souls.

Mad, mad!--your senses whirl Like devils dancing free, Because a strolling girl Can hold the note high C.

For this the avenging rod Of Heaven ye dare defy, And tear the law that God Thundered from Sinai!

HOSPITALITY.

Why ask me, Gastrogogue, to dine (Unless to praise your rascal wine) Yet never ask some luckless sinner Who needs, as I do not, a dinner?

FOR A CERTAIN CRITIC.

Let lowly themes engage my humble pen-- Stupidities of critics, not of men. Be it mine once more the maunderings to trace Of the expounders' self-directed race-- Their wire-drawn fancies, finically fine, Of diligent vacuity the sign. Let them in jargon of their trade rehearse The moral meaning of the random verse That runs spontaneous from the poet's pen To be half-blotted by ambitious men Who hope with his their meaner names to link By writing o'er it in another ink The thoughts unreal which they think they think, Until the mental eye in vain inspects The hateful palimpsest to find the text.

The lark ascending heavenward, loud and long Sings to the dawning day his wanton song. The moaning dove, attentive to the sound, Its hidden meaning hastens to expound: Explains its principles, design--in brief, Pronounces it a parable of grief!

The bee, just pausing ere he daubs his thigh With pollen from a hollyhock near by, Declares he never heard in terms so just The labor problem thoughtfully discussed! The browsing ass looks up and clears his whistle To say: "A monologue upon the thistle!" Meanwhile the lark, descending, folds his wing And innocently asks: "What!--did I sing?"

O literary parasites! who thrive Upon the fame of better men, derive Your sustenance by suction, like a leech, And, for you preach of them, think masters preach,-- Who find it half is profit, half delight, To write about what you could never write,-- Consider, pray, how sharp had been the throes Of famine and discomfiture in those You write of if they had been critics, too, And doomed to write of nothing but of you!

Lo! where the gaping crowd throngs yonder tent, To see the lion resolutely bent! The prosing showman who the beast displays Grows rich and richer daily in its praise. But how if, to attract the curious yeoman, The lion owned the show and showed the showman?

RELIGIOUS PROGRESS.

Every religion is important. When men rise above existing conditions a new religion comes in, and it is better than the old one.--_Professor Howison_.

Professor dear, I think it queer That all these good religions ('Twixt you and me, some two or three Are schemes for plucking pigeons)--

I mean 'tis strange that every change Our poor minds to unfetter Entails a new religion--true As t' other one, and better.

From each in turn the truth we learn, That wood or flesh or spirit May justly boast it rules the roast Until we cease to fear it.

Nay, once upon a time long gone Man worshipped Cat and Lizard: His God he'd find in any kind Of beast, from a to izzard.

When risen above his early love Of dirt and blood and slumber, He pulled down these vain deities, And made one out of lumber.

"Far better that than even a cat," The Howisons all shouted; "When God is wood religion's good!" But one poor cynic doubted.

"A timber God--that's very odd!" Said Progress, and invented The simple plan to worship Man, Who, kindly soul! consented.

But soon our eye we lift asky, Our vows all unregarded, And find (at least so says the priest) The Truth--and Man's discarded.

Along our line of march recline Dead gods devoid of feeling; And thick about each sun-cracked lout Dried Howisons are kneeling.

MAGNANIMITY.

"To the will of the people we loyally bow!" That's the minority shibboleth now. O noble antagonists, answer me flat-- What would you do if you didn't do that?

TO HER.

O, Sinner A, to me unknown Be such a conscience as your own! To ease it you to Sinner B Confess the sins of Sinner C.

TO A SUMMER POET.

Yes, the Summer girl is flirting on the beach, With a him. And the damboy is a-climbing for the peach, On the limb; Yes, the bullfrog is a-croaking And the dudelet is a-smoking Cigarettes; And the hackman is a-hacking And the showman is a-cracking Up his pets; Yes, the Jersey 'skeeter flits along the shore And the snapdog--we have heard it o'er and o'er; Yes, my poet, Well we know it-- Know the spooners how they spoon In the bright Dollar light Of the country tavern moon; Yes, the caterpillars fall From the trees (we know it all), And with beetles all the shelves Are alive.

Please unbuttonhole us--O, Have the grace to let us go, For we know How you Summer poets thrive, By the recapitulation And insistent iteration Of the wondrous doings incident to Life Among Ourselves! So, I pray you stop the fervor and the fuss. For you, poor human linnet, There's a half a living in it, But there's not a copper cent in it for us!

ARTHUR McEWEN.

Posterity with all its eyes Will come and view him where he lies. Then, turning from the scene away With a concerted shrug, will say: "H'm, Scarabaeus Sisyphus-- What interest has that to us? We can't admire at all, at all, A tumble-bug without its ball." And then a sage will rise and say: "Good friends, you err--turn back, I pray: This freak that you unwisely shun Is bug and ball rolled into one."

CHARLES AND PETER.

Ere Gabriel's note to silence died All graves of men were gaping wide.

Then Charles A. Dana, of "The Sun," Rose slowly from the deepest one.

"The dead in Christ rise first, 't is writ," Quoth he--"ick, bick, ban, doe,--I'm It!"

(His headstone, footstone, counted slow, Were "ick" and "bick," he "ban" and "doe":

Of beating Nick the subtle art Was part of his immortal part.)

Then straight to Heaven he took his flight, Arriving at the Gates of Light.

There Warden Peter, in the throes Of sleep, lay roaring in the nose.

"Get up, you sluggard!" Dana cried-- "I've an engagement there inside."

The Saint arose and scratched his head. "I recollect your face," he said.

"(And, pardon me, 't is rather hard), But----" Dana handed him a card.

"Ah, yes, I now remember--bless My soul, how dull I am I--yes, yes,

"We've nothing better here than bliss. Walk in. But I must tell you this:

"We've rest and comfort, though, and peace." "H'm--puddles," Dana said, "for geese.

"Have you in Heaven no Hell?" "Why, no," Said Peter, "nor, in truth, below.

"'T is not included in our scheme-- 'T is but a preacher's idle dream."

The great man slowly moved away. "I'll call," he said, "another day.

"On earth I played it, o'er and o'er, And Heaven without it were a bore."

"O, stuff!--come in. You'll make," said Pete, "A hell where'er you set your feet."

1885.

CONTEMPLATION.

I muse upon the distant town In many a dreamy mood. Above my head the sunbeams crown The graveyard's giant rood. The lupin blooms among the tombs. The quail recalls her brood.

Ah, good it is to sit and trace The shadow of the cross; It moves so still from place to place O'er marble, bronze and moss; With graves to mark upon its arc Our time's eternal loss.

And sweet it is to watch the bee That reve's in the rose, And sense the fragrance floating free On every breeze that blows O'er many a mound, where, safe and sound, Mine enemies repose.

CREATION.

God dreamed--the suns sprang flaming into place, And sailing worlds with many a venturous race! He woke--His smile alone illumined space.

BUSINESS.

Two villains of the highest rank Set out one night to rob a bank. They found the building, looked it o'er, Each window noted, tried each door, Scanned carefully the lidded hole For minstrels to cascade the coal-- In short, examined five-and-twenty Good paths from poverty to plenty. But all were sealed, they saw full soon, Against the minions of the moon. "Enough," said one: "I'm satisfied." The other, smiling fair and wide, Said: "I'm as highly pleased as you: No burglar ever can get through. Fate surely prospers our design-- The booty all is yours and mine." So, full of hope, the following day To the exchange they took their way And bought, with manner free and frank, Some stock of that devoted bank; And they became, inside the year, One President and one Cashier.

Their crime I can no further trace-- The means of safety to embrace, I overdrew and left the place.

A POSSIBILITY.

If the wicked gods were willing (Pray it never may be true!) That a universal chilling Should ensue Of the sentiment of loving,-- If they made a great undoing Of the plan of turtle-doving, Then farewell all poet-lore, Evermore. If there were no more of billing There would be no more of cooing And we all should be but owls-- Lonely fowls Blinking wonderfully wise, With our great round eyes-- Sitting singly in the gloaming and no longer two and two, As unwilling to be wedded as unpracticed how to woo; With regard to being mated, Asking still with aggravated Ungrammatical acerbity: "To who? To who?"

TO A CENSOR.

"The delay granted by the weakness and good nature of our judges is responsible for half the murders."--_Daily Newspaper_.

Delay responsible? Why, then; my friend, Impeach Delay and you will make an end. Thrust vile Delay in jail and let it rot For doing all the things that it should not. Put not good-natured judges under bond, But make Delay in damages respond. Minos, Aeacus, Rhadamanthus, rolled Into one pitiless, unsmiling scold-- Unsparing censor, be your thongs uncurled To "lash the rascals naked through the world." The rascals? Nay, Rascality's the thing Above whose back your knotted scourges sing. _Your_ satire, truly, like a razor keen, "Wounds with a touch that's neither felt nor seen;" For naught that you assail with falchion free Has either nerves to feel or eyes to see. Against abstractions evermore you charge You hack no helmet and you need no targe. That wickedness is wrong and sin a vice, That wrong's not right and foulness never nice, Fearless affirm. All consequences dare: Smite the offense and the offender spare. When Ananias and Sapphira lied Falsehood, had you been there, had surely died. When money-changers in the Temple sat, At money-changing you'd have whirled the "cat" (That John-the-Baptist of the modern pen) And all the brokers would have cried amen!

Good friend, if any judge deserve your blame Have you no courage, or has he no name? Upon his method will you wreak your wrath, Himself all unmolested in his path? Fall to! fall to!--your club no longer draw To beat the air or flail a man of straw. Scorn to do justice like the Saxon thrall Who cuffed the offender's shadow on a wall. Let rascals in the flesh attest your zeal-- Knocked on the mazzard or tripped up at heel!

We know that judges are corrupt. We know That crimes are lively and that laws are slow. We know that lawyers lie and doctors slay; That priests and preachers are but birds of pray; That merchants cheat and journalists for gold Flatter the vicious while at vice they scold. 'Tis all familiar as the simple lore That two policemen and two thieves make four.

But since, while some are wicked, some are good, (As trees may differ though they all are wood) Names, here and there, to show whose head is hit, The bad would sentence and the good acquit. In sparing everybody none you spare: Rebukes most personal are least unfair. To fire at random if you still prefer, And swear at Dog but never kick a cur, Permit me yet one ultimate appeal To something that you understand and feel: Let thrift and vanity your heart persuade-- You might be read if you would learn your trade.

Good brother cynics (you have doubtless guessed Not one of you but all are here addressed) Remember this: the shaft that seeks a heart Draws all eyes after it; an idle dart Shot at some shadow flutters o'er the green, Its flight unheeded and its fall unseen.

THE HESITATING VETERAN.

When I was young and full of faith And other fads that youngsters cherish A cry rose as of one that saith With unction: "Help me or I perish!" 'Twas heard in all the land, and men The sound were each to each repeating. It made my heart beat faster then Than any heart can now be beating.

For the world is old and the world is gray-- Grown prudent and, I guess, more witty. She's cut her wisdom teeth, they say, And doesn't now go in for Pity. Besides, the melancholy cry Was that of one, 'tis now conceded, Whose plight no one beneath the sky Felt half so poignantly as he did.

Moreover, he was black. And yet That sentimental generation With an austere compassion set Its face and faith to the occasion. Then there were hate and strife to spare, And various hard knocks a-plenty; And I ('twas more than my true share, I must confess) took five-and-twenty.

That all is over now--the reign Of love and trade stills all dissensions, And the clear heavens arch again Above a land of peace and pensions. The black chap--at the last we gave Him everything that he had cried for, Though many white chaps in the grave 'Twould puzzle to say what they died for.

I hope he's better off--I trust That his society and his master's Are worth the price we paid, and must Continue paying, in disasters; But sometimes doubts press thronging round ('Tis mostly when my hurts are aching) If war for union was a sound And profitable undertaking.

'Tis said they mean to take away The Negro's vote for he's unlettered. 'Tis true he sits in darkness day And night, as formerly, when fettered; But pray observe--howe'er he vote To whatsoever party turning, He'll be with gentlemen of note And wealth and consequence and learning. With Hales and Morgans on each side, How could a fool through lack of knowledge, Vote wrong? If learning is no guide Why ought one to have been in college? O Son of Day, O Son of Night! What are your preferences made of? I know not which of you is right, Nor which to be the more afraid of.

The world is old and the world is bad, And creaks and grinds upon its axis; And man's an ape and the gods are mad!-- There's nothing sure, not even our taxes. No mortal man can Truth restore, Or say where she is to be sought for. I know what uniform I wore-- O, that I knew which side I fought for!

A YEAR'S CASUALTIES.

Slain as they lay by the secret, slow, Pitiless hand of an unseen foe, Two score thousand old soldiers have crossed The river to join the loved and lost. In the space of a year their spirits fled, Silent and white, to the camp of the dead.

One after one, they fall asleep And the pension agents awake to weep, And orphaned statesmen are loud in their wail As the souls flit by on the evening gale. O Father of Battles, pray give us release From the horrors of peace, the horrors of peace!

INSPIRATION.

O hoary sculptor, stay thy hand: I fain would view the lettered stone. What carvest thou?--perchance some grand And solemn fancy all thine own. For oft to know the fitting word Some humble worker God permits. "Jain Ann Meginnis, Agid 3rd. He givith His beluved fits."

TO-DAY.

I saw a man who knelt in prayer, And heard him say: "I'll lay my inmost spirit bare To-day.

"Lord, for to-morrow and its need I do not pray; Let me upon my neighbor feed To-day.

"Let me my duty duly shirk And run away From any form or phase of work To-day.

"From Thy commands exempted still Let me obey The promptings of my private will To-day.

"Let me no word profane, no lie Unthinking say If anyone is standing by To-day.

"My secret sins and vices grave Let none betray; The scoffer's jeers I do not crave To-day.

"And if to-day my fortune all Should ebb away, Help me on other men's to fall To-day.

"So, for to-morrow and its mite I do not pray; Just give me everything in sight To-day."

I cried: "Amen!" He rose and ran Like oil away. I said: "I've seen an honest man To-day."

AN ALIBI.

A famous journalist, who long Had told the great unheaded throng Whate'er they thought, by day or night. Was true as Holy Writ, and right, Was caught in--well, on second thought, It is enough that he was caught, And being thrown in jail became The fuel of a public flame.

"_Vox populi vox Dei_," said The jailer. Inxling bent his head Without remark: that motto good In bold-faced type had always stood Above the columns where his pen Had rioted in praise of men And all they said--provided he Was sure they mostly did agree. Meanwhile a sharp and bitter strife To take, or save, the culprit's life Or liberty (which, I suppose, Was much the same to him) arose Outside. The journal that his pen Adorned denounced his crime--but then Its editor in secret tried To have the indictment set aside. The opposition papers swore His father was a rogue before, And all his wife's relations were Like him and similar to her. They begged their readers to subscribe A dollar each to make a bribe That any Judge would feel was large Enough to prove the gravest charge-- Unless, it might be, the defense Put up superior evidence. The law's traditional delay Was all too short: the trial day Dawned red and menacing. The Judge Sat on the Bench and wouldn't budge, And all the motions counsel made Could not move _him_--and there he stayed. "The case must now proceed," he said, "While I am just in heart and head, It happens--as, indeed, it ought-- Both sides with equal sums have bought My favor: I can try the cause Impartially." (Prolonged applause.)

The prisoner was now arraigned And said that he was greatly pained To be suspected--_he_, whose pen Had charged so many other men With crimes and misdemeanors! "Why," He said, a tear in either eye, "If men who live by crying out 'Stop thief!' are not themselves from doubt Of their integrity exempt, Let all forego the vain attempt To make a reputation! Sir, I'm innocent, and I demur." Whereat a thousand voices cried Amain he manifestly lied-- _Vox populi_ as loudly roared As bull by _picadores_ gored, In his own coin receiving pay To make a Spanish holiday.

The jury--twelve good men and true-- Were then sworn in to see it through, And each made solemn oath that he As any babe unborn was free From prejudice, opinion, thought, Respectability, brains--aught That could disqualify; and some Explained that they were deaf and dumb. A better twelve, his Honor said, Was rare, except among the dead. The witnesses were called and sworn. The tales they told made angels mourn, And the Good Book they'd kissed became Red with the consciousness of shame.