Black Beetles in Amber | Page 6

have already booked it. Pray

observe."
Splitting the giant tome, whose covers fell
Apart,
o'ershadowing to right and left
The Eastern and the Western world,
he showed
The newly written entry, black and big,
Upon the credit
side of thine account,
Pennoyer, Governor of Oregon.
Y'E FOE TO CATHAYE
O never an oathe sweares he,
And never a pig-taile jerkes;
With a
brick-batte he ne lurkes
For to buste y'e crust, perdie,
Of y'e man
from over sea,
A-synging as he werkes.
For he knows ful well, y's
youth,
A tricke of exceeding worth:
And he plans withouten ruth

A conflagration's birth!
SAMUEL SHORTRIDGE
Like a worn mother he attempts in vain
To still the unruly Crier of his
brain:
The more he rocks the cradle of his chin
The more
uproarious grows the brat within.
SURPRISED
"O son of mine age, these eyes lose their fire:
Be eyes, I pray, to thy
dying sire."
"O father, fear not, for mine eyes are bright--
I read through a
millstone at dead of night."
"My son, O tell me, who are those men,
Rushing like pigs to the
feeding-pen?"
"Welcomers they of a statesman grand.
They'll shake, and then they
will pocket; his hand."
"Sagacious youth, with the wondrous eye,
They seem to throw up
their headgear. Why?"

"Because they've thrown up their hands until, O,
They're so
tired!--and dinners they've none to throw."
"My son, my son, though dull are mine ears,
I hear a great sound like
the people's cheers."
"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--
Nobly designed, in attitude
commanding.
A toga from its shoulders, fold on fold,
Fell to the
pedestal on which 'twas standing.
Nobility 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 space 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 twang of its resounding jar,
Shall say: "These bards are
an uncommon class--
They blow their noses with a tube of brass!"

Rankin! ye gods! 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 shield 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 Massett died,
And for admission up
at Heaven applied.
"Who are you?" asked St. Peter. Massett said:

"Jeems Pipes,