Black Beetles in Amber Part 3

"He's thanking them, father, with tears in his eyes, For giving him lately that fine surprise."

"My memory fails as I near mine end; How _did_ they astonish their grateful friend?"

"By letting him buy, like apples or oats, With that which has made him so good, the votes Which make him so wise and grand and great.

Now, father, please die, for 'tis growing late."

POSTERITY'S AWARD

I'd long been dead, but I returned to earth.

Some small affairs posterity was making A mess of, and I came to see that worth Received its dues. I'd hardly finished waking, The grave-mould still upon me, when my eye Perceived a statue standing straight and high.

'Twas a colossal figure--bronze and gold-- n.o.bly designed, in att.i.tude commanding.

A toga from its shoulders, fold on fold, Fell to the pedestal on which 'twas standing.

n.o.bility it had and splendid grace, And all it should have had--except a face!

It showed no features: not a trace nor sign Of any eyes or nose could be detected-- On the smooth oval of its front no line Where sites for mouths are commonly selected.

All blank and blind its faulty head it reared.

Let this be said: 'twas generously eared.

Seeing these things, I straight began to guess For whom this mighty image was intended.

"The head," I cried, "is Upton's, and the dress Is Parson Bartlett's own." True, _his_ cloak ended Flush with his lowest vertebra, but no Sane sculptor ever made a toga so.

Then on the pedestal these words I read: "_Erected Eighteen Hundred Ninety-seven_"

(Saint Christofer! how fast the time had sped!

Of course it naturally does in Heaven) "_To_ ----" (here a blank s.p.a.ce for the name began) "_The Nineteenth Century's Great Foremost Man_!"

"_Completed_" the inscription ended, "_in The Year Three Thousand_"--which was just arriving.

By Jove! thought I, 'twould make the founders grin To learn whose fame so long has been surviving-- To read the name posterity will place In that blank void, and view the finished face.

Even as I gazed, the year Three Thousand came, And then by acclamation all the people Decreed whose was our century's best fame; Then scaffolded the statue like a steeple, To make the likeness; and the name was sunk Deep in the pedestal's metallic trunk.

Whose was it? Gentle reader, pray excuse The seeming rudeness, but I can't consent to Be so forehanded with important news.

'Twas neither yours nor mine--let that content you.

If not, the name I must surrender, which, Upon a dead man's word, was George K. Fitch!

AN ART CRITIC

Ira P. Rankin, you've a nasal name-- I'll sound it through "the speaking-trump of fame,"

And wondering nations, hearing from afar The brazen tw.a.n.g of its resounding jar, Shall say: "These bards are an uncommon cla.s.s-- They blow their noses with a tube of bra.s.s!"

Rankin! ye G.o.ds! if Influenza pick Our names at christening, and such names stick, Let's all be born when summer suns withstand Her prevalence and chase her from the land, And healing breezes generously help To s.h.i.+eld from death each ailing human whelp!

"What's in a name?" There's much at least in yours That the pained ear unwillingly endures, And much to make the suffering soul, I fear, Envy the lesser anguish of the ear.

So you object to Cytherea! Do, The picture was not painted, sir, for you!

_Your_ mind to gratify and taste address, The masking dove had been a dove the less.

Provincial censor! all untaught in art, With mind indecent and indecent heart, Do you not know--nay, why should I explain?

Instruction, argument alike were vain-- I'll show you reasons when you show me brain.

THE SPIRIT OF A SPONGE

I dreamed one night that Stephen Ma.s.sett died, And for admission up at Heaven applied.

"Who are you?" asked St. Peter. Ma.s.sett said: "Jeems Pipes, of Pipesville." Peter bowed his head, Opened the gates and said: "I'm glad to know you, And wish we'd something better, sir, to show you."

"Don't mention it," said Stephen, looking bland, And was about to enter, hat in hand, When from a cloud below such fumes arose As tickled tenderly his conscious nose.

He paused, replaced his hat upon his head, Turned back and to the saintly warden said, O'er his already sprouting wings: "I swear I smell some broiling going on down there!"

So Ma.s.sett's paunch, attracted by the smell, Followed his nose and found a place in h.e.l.l.

ORNITHANTHROPOS

"Let John P. Irish rise!" the edict rang As when Creation into being sprang!

Nature, not clearly understanding, tried To make a bird that on the air could ride.

But naught could baffle the creative plan-- Despite her efforts 'twas almost a man.

Yet he had risen--to the bird a twin-- Had she but fixed a wing upon his chin.

TO E.S. SALOMON

Who in a Memorial Day oration protested bitterly against decorating the graves of Confederate dead.

What! Salomon! such words from you, Who call yourself a soldier? Well, The Southern brother where he fell Slept all your base oration through.

Alike to him--he cannot know Your praise or blame: as little harm Your tongue can do him as your arm A quarter-century ago.

The brave respect the brave. The brave Respect the dead; but _you_--you draw That ancient blade, the a.s.s's jaw, And shake it o'er a hero's grave.

Are you not he who makes to-day A merchandise of old renown Which he persuades this easy town He won in battle far away?

Nay, those the fallen who revile Have ne'er before the living stood And stoutly made their battle good And greeted danger with a smile.

What if the dead whom still you hate Were wrong? Are you so surely right?

We know the issue of the fight-- The sword is but an advocate.