Black Beetles in Amber Part 11

Straight, as the voice was stilled-- That single rounded mound cracked lengthliwise And one came forth in grave-clothes. For a s.p.a.ce He stood and gazed about him with a smile Superior; then laying off his shroud Disclosed his two attenuated legs Which, like parentheses, bent outwardly As by the weight of saintliness above, And so sprang upward and was lost to view Noting his headstone overthrown, I read: "Sacred to memory of George K. Fitch, Deacon and Editor--a holy man Who fell asleep in Jesus, full of years And blessedness. The dead in Christ rise first."

MASTER OF THREE ARTS

Your various talents, Goldenson, command Respect: you are a poet and can draw.

It is a pity that your gifted hand Should ever have been raised against the law.

If you had drawn no pistol, but a picture, You would have saved your throttle from a stricture.

About your poetry I'm not so sure: 'Tis certain we have much that's quite as bad, Whose hardy writers have not to endure The hangman's fondling. It is said they're mad: Though lately Mr. Brooks (I mean the poet) Looked well, and if demented didn't show it.

Well, Goldenson, I am a poet, too-- Taught by the muses how to smite the harp And lift the tuneful voice, although, like you And Brooks, I sometimes flat and sometimes sharp.

But let me say, with no desire to taunt you, I never murder even the girls I want to.

I hold it one of the poetic laws To sing of life, not take. I've ever shown A high regard for human life because I have such trouble to support my own.

And you--well, you'll find trouble soon in blowing Your private coal to keep it red and glowing.

I fancy now I see you at the Gate Approach St. Peter, crawling on your belly, You cry: "Good sir, take pity on my state-- Forgive the murderer of Mamie Kelly!"

And Peter says: "O, that's all right--but, mister, You scribbled rhymes. In h.e.l.l I'll make you blister!"

THERSITES

So, in the Sunday papers _you_, Del Mar, d.a.m.n, all great Englishmen in English speech?

I am no Englishman, but in my reach A rogue shall never rail where heroes are.

You are the man, if I mistake you not, Who lately with a supplicating twitch Plucked at the pockets of the London rich And paid your share-engraver all you got.

Because that you have greatly lied, because You libel nations, and because no hand Of officer is raised to bid you stand, And falsehood is unpunished of the laws,

I stand here in a public place to mark With level finger where you part the crowd-- I stand to name you and to cry aloud: "Behold mendacity's great hierarch!"

A SOCIETY LEADER

"The Social World"! O what a world it is-- Where full-grown men cut capers in the German, Cotillion, waltz, or what you will, and whizz And spin and hop and sprawl about like mermen!

I wonder if our future Grant or Sherman, As these youths pa.s.s their time, is pa.s.sing his-- If eagles ever come from painted eggs, Or deeds of arms succeed to deeds of legs.

I know they tell us about Waterloo: How, "foremost fighting," fell the evening's dancers.

I don't believe it: I regard it true That soldiers who are skillful in "the Lancers"

Less often die of cannon than of cancers.

Moreover, I am half-persuaded, too, That David when he danced before the Ark Had the reporter's word to keep it dark.

Ed. Greenway, you fatigue. Your hateful name Like maiden's curls, is in the papers daily.

You think it, doubtless, honorable fame, And contemplate the cheap distinction gaily, As does the monkey the blue-painted tail he Believes becoming to him. 'Tis the same With men as other monkeys: all their souls Crave eminence on any kind of poles.

But cynics (barking tribe!) are all agreed That monkeys upon poles performing capers Are not exalted, they are only "treed."

A glory that is kindled by the papers Is transient as the phosph.o.r.escent vapors That s.h.i.+ne in graveyards and are seen, indeed, But while the bodies that supply the gas Are turning into weeds to feed an a.s.s.

One can but wonder sometimes how it feels To _be_ an a.s.s--a beast we beat condignly Because, like yours, his life is in his heels And he is p.r.o.ne to use them unbenignly.

The ladies (bless them!) say you dance divinely.

I like St. Vitus better, though, who deals His feet about him with a grace more just, And hops, not for he will, but for he must.

Doubtless it gratifies you to observe Elbowy girls and adipose mamas All looking adoration as you swerve This way and that; but prosperous papas Laugh in their sleeves at you, and their ha-has, If heard, would somewhat agitate your nerve.

And dames and maids who keep you on their shelves Don't seem to want a closer tie themselves.

G.o.ds! what a life you live!--by day a slave To your exacting back and urgent belly; Intent to earn and vigilant to save-- By night, attired so sightly and so smelly, With countenance as luminous as jelly, Bobbing and bowing! King of hearts and knave Of diamonds, I'd bet a silver brick If brains were trumps you'd never take a trick.

EXPOSITOR VERITATIS

I Slept, and, waking in the years to be, Heard voices, and approaching whence they came, Listened indifferently where a key Had lately been removed. An ancient dame Said to her daughter: "Go to yonder caddy And get some emery to scour your daddy."

And then I knew--some intuition said-- That tombs were not and men had cleared their shelves Of urns; and the electro-plated dead Stood pedestaled as statues of themselves.

With famous dead men all the public places Were thronged, and some in piles awaited bases.

One mighty structure's high facade alone Contained a single monumental niche, Where, central in that steep expanse of stone, Gleamed the familiar form of Thomas Fitch.

A man cried: "Lo! Truth's temple and its founder!"

Then gravely added: "I'm her chief expounder."

TO "COLONEL" DAN. BURNS

They say, my lord, that you're a Warwick. Well, The t.i.tle's an absurd one, I believe: You make no kings, you have no kings to sell, Though really 'twere easy to conceive You stuffing half-a-dozen up your sleeve.

No, you're no Warwick, skillful from the sh.e.l.l To hatch out sovereigns. On a mare's nest, maybe, You'd incubate a little jacka.s.s baby.

I fancy, too, that it is naught but stuff, This "power" that you're said to be "behind The throne." I'm sure 'twere accurate enough To represent you simply as inclined To push poor Markham (ailing in his mind And body, which were never very tough) Round in an invalid's wheeled chair. Such menial Employment to low natures is congenial.

No, Dan, you're an impostor every way: A human bubble, for "the earth," you know, "Hath bubbles, as the water hath." Some day Some careless hand will p.r.i.c.k your film, and O, How utterly you'll vanis.h.!.+ Daniel, throw (As fallen Woolsey might to Cromwell say) Your curst ambition to the pigs--though truly 'Twould make them greater pigs, and more unruly.

GEORGE A. KNIGHT