Black Beetles in Amber Part 20

ALFRED CLARKE JR.

Ill.u.s.trious son of an ill.u.s.trious sire-- Entrusted with the duty to cry "Fire!"

And call the engines out, exert your power With care. When, looking from your lofty tower, You see a ruddy light on every wall, Pause for a moment ere you sound the call: It may be from a fire, it may be, too, From good men's blushes when they think of you.

JUDGE RUTLEDGE

Sultan of Stupids! with enough of brains To go indoors in all uncommon rains, But not enough to stay there when the storm Is past. When all the world is dry and warm, In irking comfort, lamentably gay, Keeping the evil tenor of your way, You walk abroad, sweet, beautiful and smug, And Justice hears you with her wonted shrug, Lifts her broad bandage half-an-inch and keeps One eye upon you while the other weeps.

W.H.L. BARNES

Happy the man who sin's proverbial wage Receives on the instalment plan--in age.

For him the bulldog pistol's honest bark Has naught of terror in its blunt remark.

He looks with calmness on the gleaming steel-- If e'er it touched his heart he did not feel: Superior hardness turned its point away, Though urged by fond affinity to stay; His bloodless veins ignored the futile stroke, And moral mildew kept the cut in cloak.

Happy the man, I say, to whom the wage Of sin has been commuted into age.

Yet not _quite_ happy--hark, that horrid cry!-- His cruel mirror wounds him in the eye!

RECONCILIATION

Stanford and Huntington, so long at outs, Kissed and made up. If you have any doubts Dismiss them, for I saw them do it, man; And then--why, then I clutched my purse and ran.

A VISION OF CLIMATE

I dreamed that I was poor and sick and sad, Broken in hope and weary of my life; My ventures all miscarrying--naught had For all my labor in the heat and strife.

And in my heart some certain thoughts were rife Of an unsummoned exit. As I lay Considering my bitter state, I cried: "Alas! that hither I did ever stray.

Better in some fair country to have died Than live in such a land, where Fortune never (Unless he be successful) crowns Endeavor."

Then, even as I lamented, lo! there came A troop of Presences--I knew not whence Nor what they were: thought cannot rightly name What's known through spiritual evidence, Reported not by gross material sense.

"Why come ye here?" I seemed to cry (though naught My sleeping tongue did utter) to the first-- "What are ye?--with what woful message fraught?

Ye have a ghastly look, as ye had burst Some sepulcher in memory. Weird creatures, I'm sure I'd know you if ye had but features."

Some subtle organ noted the reply (Inaudible to ear of flesh the tone): "The Finest Climate in the World am I, From Siskiyou to San Diego known-- From the Sierra to the sea. The zone Called semi-tropical I've pulled about And placed it where it does most good, I trust.

I shake my never-failing bounty out Alike upon the just and the unjust."

"That's very true," said I, "but when 'tis shaken My share by the unjust is ever taken."

"Permit me," it resumed, "now to present My eldest son, the Champagne Atmosphere, And others to rebuke your discontent-- The Mammoth Squash, Strawberry All the Year, The fair No Lightning--flas.h.i.+ng only here-- The Wholesome Earthquake and Italian Sky, With its Unstriking Sun; and last, not least, The Compos Mentis Dog. Now, ingrate, try To bring a better stomach to the feast: When Nature makes a dance and pays the piper, To be unhappy is to be a viper!"

"Why, yet," said I, "with all your blessings fine (And Heaven forbid that I should speak them ill) I yet am poor and sick and sad. Ye s.h.i.+ne With more of splendor than of heat: for still, Although my will is warm, my bones are chill."

"Then warm you with enthusiasm's blaze-- Fortune waits not on toil," they cried; "O then Join the wild chorus clamoring our praise-- Throw up your beaver and throw down you pen!"

"Begone!" I shouted. They bewent, a-smirking, And I, awakening, fell straight a-working.

A "Ma.s.s" MEETING

It was a solemn rite as e'er Was seen by mortal man.

The celebrants, the people there, Were all Republican.

There Estee bent his grizzled head, And General Dimond, too, And one--'twas Redd.i.c.k, some one said, Though no one clearly knew.

I saw the priest, white-robed and tall (a.s.sistant, Father Stow)-- He was the pious man men call Dan Burns of Mexico.

Ah, 'twas a high and holy rite As any one could swear.

"What does it mean?" I asked a wight Who knelt apart in prayer.

"A ma.s.s for the repose," he said, "Of Colonel Markham's"----"What, Is gallant Colonel Markham dead?

'Tis sad, 'tis sad, G.o.d wot!"

"A ma.s.s"--repeated he, and rose To go and kneel among The wors.h.i.+pers--"for the repose Of Colonel Markham's tongue."

FOR PRESIDENT, LELAND STANFORD

Mahomet Stanford, with covetous stare, Gazed on a vision surpa.s.singly fair: Far on the desert's remote extreme A mountain of gold with a mellow gleam Reared its high pinnacles into the sky, The work of _mirage_ to delude the eye.

Pixley Pasha, at the Prophet's feet Piously licking them, swearing them sweet, Ventured, observing his master's glance, To beg that he order the mountain's advance.

Mahomet Stanford exerted his will, Commanding: "In Allah's name, hither, hill!"

Never an inch the mountain came.

Mahomet Stanford, with face aflame, Lifted his foot and kicked, alack!

Pixley Pasha on the end of the back.

Mollified thus and smiling free, He said: "Since the mountain won't come to me, I'll go to the mountain." With infinite pains, Camels in caravans, negroes in trains, Warriors, workmen, women, and fools, Food and water and mining tools He gathered about him, a mighty array, And the journey began at the close of day.

All night they traveled--at early dawn Many a wearisome league had gone.

Morning broke fair with a golden sheen, Mountain, alas, was nowhere seen!

Mahomet Stanford pounded his breast, Pixley Pasha he thus addressed: "Dog of mendacity, cheat and slave, May jacka.s.ses sing o'er your grandfather's grave!"

FOR MAYOR

O Abner Doble--whose "catarrhal name"

Budd of that ilk might envy--'tis a rough Rude thing to say, but it is plain enough Your name is to be sneezed at: its acclaim Will "fill the speaking trump of future fame"

With an impeded utterance--a puff Suggesting that a pinch or two of snuff Would clear the tube and somewhat disinflame.