Black Beetles in Amber Part 31

They stop: the man to lower his feet is seen And the tired beast, withdrawing from between, Mounts, as they start again, the biped's neck, And scarce the crowd can say which one's on deck.

A GROWLER

Judge Shafter, you're an aged man, I know, And learned too, I doubt not, in the law; And a head white with many a winter's snow (I wish, however that your heart would thaw) Claims reverence and honor; but the jaw That's always wagging with a word malign, Nagging and scolding every one in sight As harshly as a jaybird in a pine, And with as little sense of wrong and right As animates that irritable creature, Is not a very venerable feature.

You d.a.m.n all witnesses, all jurors too (And swear at the attorneys, I suppose, But _that's_ commendable) "till all is blue"; And what it's all about, the good Lord knows, Not you; but all the hotter, fiercer glows Your wrath for that--as dogs the louder howl With only moons.h.i.+ne to incite their rage, And bears with more ferocious menace growl, Even when their food is flung into the cage.

Reform, your Honor, and forbear to curse us.

Lest all men, hearing you, cry: "_Ecce ursus_!"

AD MOODIUM

Tut! Moody, do not try to show To gentlemen and ladies That if they have not "Faith," they'll go Headlong to Hades.

Faith is belief; and how can I Have that by being willing?

This dime I cannot, though I try, Believe a s.h.i.+lling.

Perhaps you can. If so, pray do-- Believe you own it, also.

But what seems evidence to you I may not call so.

Heaven knows I'd like the Faith to think This little vessel's contents Are liquid gold. I see 'tis ink For writing nonsense.

Minds p.r.o.ne to Faith, however, may Come now and then to sorrow: They put their trust in truth to-day, In lies to-morrow.

No doubt the happiness is great To think as one would wish to; But not to swallow every bait, As certain fish do.

To think a snake a cord, I hope, Would bolden and delight me; But some day I might think a rope Would chase and bite me.

"Curst Reason! Faith forever blest!"

You're crying all the season.

Well, who decides that Faith is best?

Why, Mr. Reason.

He's right or wrong; he answers you According to your folly, And says what you have taught him to, Like any polly.

AN EPITAPH

Hangman's hands laid in this tomb an Imp of Satan's getting, whom an Ancient legend says that woman Never bore--he owed his birth To Sin herself. From h.e.l.l to Earth She brought the brat in secret state And laid him at the Golden gate, And they named him Henry Vrooman.

While with mortals here he stayed, His father frequently he played.

Raised his birth-place and in other Playful ways begot his mother.

A SPADE

[The spade that was used to turn the first sod in the construction of the Central Pacific Railroad is to be exhibited at the New Orleans Exposition.--_Press Telegram_.]

Precursor of our woes, historic spade, What dismal records burn upon thy blade!

On thee I see the maculating stains Of pa.s.sengers' commingled blood and brains.

In this red rust a widow's curse appears, And here an orphan tarnished thee with tears.

Upon thy handle sanguinary bands Reveal the clutching of thine owner's hands When first he wielded thee with vigor brave To cut a sod and dig a people's grave-- (For they who are debauched are dead and ought, In G.o.d's name, to be hid from sight and thought.) Within thee, as within a magic gla.s.s, I seem to see a foul procession pa.s.s-- Judges with ermine dragging in the mud And spotted here and there with guiltless blood; Gold-greedy legislators jingling bribes; Kept editors and sycophantic scribes; Liars in swarms and plunderers in tribes; They fade away before the night's advance, And fancy figures thee a devil's lance Gleaming portentous through the misty shade, While ghosts of murdered virtues shriek about my blade!

THE VAN NESSIAD

From end to end, thine avenue, Van Ness, Rang with the cries of battle and distress!

Brave lungs were thundering with dreadful sound And perspiration smoked along the ground!

Sing, heavenly muse, to ears of mortal clay, The meaning, cause and finish of the fray.

Great Porter Ashe (invoking first the G.o.ds, Who signed their favor with a.s.senting nods That snapped off half their heads--their necks grown dry Since last the nectar cup went circling by) Resolved to build a stable on his lot, His neighbors fiercely swearing he should not.

Said he: "I build that stable!" "No, you don't,"

Said they. "I can!" "You can't!" "I will!" "You won't!"

"By heaven!" he swore; "not only will I build, But purchase donkeys till the place is filled!"

"Needless expense," they sneered in tones of ice-- "The owner's self, if lodged there, would suffice."

For three long months the awful war they waged: With women, women, men with men engaged, While roaring babes and shrilling poodles raged!

Jove, from Olympus, where he still maintains His ancient session (with rheumatic pains Touched by his long exposure) marked the strife, Interminable but by loss of life; For malediction soon exhausts the breath-- If not, old age itself is certain death.

Lo! he holds high in heaven the fatal beam; A golden pan depends from each, extreme; This feels of Porter's fate the downward stress, That bears the destiny of all Van Ness.

Alas! the rusted scales, their life all gone, Deliver judgment neither pro nor con: The dooms hang level and the war goes on.

With a divine, contemptuous disesteem Jove dropped the pans and kicked, himself, the beam: Then, to decide the strife, with ready wit, The nickel that he did not care for it Twirled absently, remarking: "See it spin: Head, Porter loses; tail, the others win."

The conscious nickel, charged with doom, spun round, Portentously and made a ringing sound, Then, staggering beneath its load of fate, Sank rattling, died at last and lay in state.

Jove scanned the disk and then, as is his wont, Raised his considering orbs, exclaiming: "Front!"

With leisurely alacrity approached The herald G.o.d, to whom his mind he broached: "In San Francisco two belligerent Powers, Such as contended round great Ilion's towers, Fight for a stable, though in either cla.s.s There's not a horse, and but a single a.s.s.

Achilles Ashe, with formidable jaw a.s.sails a Trojan band with fierce hee-haw, Firing the night with brilliant curses. They With dark vituperation gloom the day.

Fate, against which nor G.o.ds nor men compete, Decrees their victory and his defeat.

With haste, good Mercury, betake thee hence And salivate him till he has no sense!"

Sheer downward shot the messenger afar, Trailing a splendor like a falling star!

With dimming l.u.s.tre through the air he burned, Vanished, nor till another sun returned.

The sovereign of the G.o.ds superior smiled, Beaming benignant, fatherly and mild: "Is Destiny's decree performed, my lad?-- And has he now no sense?" "Ah, sire, he never had."