John Smith, U.S.A. | Page 9

high; _He_ in his meager, shabby
home, _I_ in my roaring den--
He with his babes around him, _I_
with my hunted men!
His virtue be his bulwark--my genius should be
mine!--
"Go fetch my pen, sweet Margot, and a jorum of your wine!"

So would one vainly plod, and one win immortality--
If I were
Francois Villon and Francois Villon I!
LYDIA DICK.
When I was a boy at college,
Filling up with classic knowledge,

Frequently I wondered why
Old Professor Demas Bently
Used to
praise so eloquently
"Opera Horatii."
Toiling on a season longer
Till my reasoning power got stronger,

As my observation grew,
I became convinced that mellow,

Massic-loving poet fellow
Horace knew a thing or two
Yes, we sophomores figured duly
That, if we appraised him truly,

Horace must have been a brick;
And no wonder that with ranting

Rhymes he went a-gallivanting
Round with sprightly Lydia Dick!
For that pink of female gender
Tall and shapely was, and slender,

Plump of neck and bust and arms;
While the raiment that invested

Her so jealously suggested
Certain more potential charms.
Those dark eyes of her that fired him--
Those sweet accents that
inspired him,
And her crown of glorious hair--
These things baffle
my description;
I should have a fit conniption
If I tried--so I
forbear!
May be Lydia had her betters;
Anyway, this man of letters
Took
that charmer as his pick;
Glad--yes, glad I am to know it!
I, a fin de

siecle poet,
Sympathize with Lydia Dick!
Often in my arbor shady
I fall thinking of that lady
And the pranks
she used to play;
And I'm cheered--for all we sages
Joy when from
those distant ages
Lydia dances down our way.
Otherwise some folks might wonder
With good reason why in
thunder
Learned professors, dry and prim,
Find such solace in the
giddy
Pranks that Horace played with Liddy
Or that Liddy played
on him.
Still this world of ours rejoices
In those ancient singing voices,
And
our hearts beat high and quick,
To the cadence of old Tiber

Murmuring praise of roistering Liber
And of charming Lydia Dick.
Still, Digentia, downward flowing,
Prattleth to the roses blowing

By the dark, deserted grot;
Still, Soracte, looming lonely,
Watcheth
for the coming only
Of a ghost that cometh not.
THE TIN BANK.
Speaking of banks, I'm bound to say
That a bank of tin is far the best,

And I know of one that has stood for years
In a pleasant home
away out west.
It has stood for years on the mantelpiece
Between
the clock and the Wedgwood plate--
A wonderful bank, as you'll
concede
When you've heard the things I'll now relate.
This bank was made of McKinley tin,
Well soldered up at sides and
back;
But it didn't resemble tin at all,
For they'd painted it over an
iron black.
And that it really was a bank
'Twas an easy thing to see
and say,
For above the door in gorgeous red
Appeared the letters
B-A-N-K!
The bank had been so well devised
And wrought so cunningly that
when
You put your money in at the hole
It couldn't get out of that

hole again!
Somewhere about that stanch, snug thing
A secret
spring was hid away,
But _where_ it was or _how it_ worked--

Excuse me, please, but I will not say.
Thither, with dimpled cheeks aglow,
Came pretty children oftentimes,

And, standing up on stool or chair,
Put in their divers pence and
dimes.
Once Uncle Hank came home from town
After a cycle of
grand events,
And put in a round, blue, ivory thing,
He said was
good for 50 cents!
The bank went clinkety-clinkety-clink,
And larger grew the precious
sum
Which grandma said she hoped would prove
A gracious boon
to heathendom!
But there were those--I call no names--
Who did
not fancy any plan
That did not in some wise involve
The candy
and banana man.
Listen; once when the wind went "Yooooooo!"
And the raven
croaked in the tangled tarn--
When, with a wail, the screech-owl flew

Out of her lair in the haunted barn--
There came three burglars
down the road--
Three burglars skilled in arts of sin,
And they cried:
"What's this? Aha! Oho!"
And straightway tackled the bank of tin.
They burgled from half-past ten p.m.,
Till the village bell struck four
o'clock;
They hunted and searched and guessed and tried--
But the
little tin bank would not unlock!
They couldn't discover the secret
spring!
So, when the barn-yard rooster crowed,
They up with their
tools and stole away
With the bitter remark that they'd be blowed!
Next morning came a sweet-faced child
And reached her dimpled
hand to take
A nickel to send to the heathen poor
And a nickel to
spend for her stomach's sake.
She pressed the hidden secret spring,

And lo! the bank flew open then
With a cheery creak that seemed to
say:

"I'm glad to see you; come again!"

If you were I, and if I were you,
What would we keep our money in?

In a downtown bank of British steel,
Or an at-home bank of
McKinley tin?
Some want silver and some want gold,
But the little
tin bank that wants the two
And is run on the double standard plan--

Why, that is the bank for me and you!
IN NEW ORLEANS
'Twas in the Crescent city not long ago befell
The tear-compelling
incident I now propose to tell;
So come, my sweet