Black Beetles in Amber | Page 6

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, 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 Massett's paunch, attracted by the smell,?Followed his nose and found a place in Hell.
ORNITHANTHROPOS
"Let John P. Irish rise!" the edict rang?As when Creation into being sprang!?Nature,