Black Beetles in Amber Part 17

ANOTHER PLAN

Editor Owen, of San Jose, Commonly known as "our friend J.J."

Weary of scribbling for daily bread, Weary of writing what n.o.body read, Slept one day at his desk and dreamed That an angel before him stood and beamed With compa.s.sionate eyes upon him there.

Editor Owen is not so fair In feature, expression, form or limb But glances like that are familiar to him; And so, to arrive by the shortest route At his visitor's will he said, simply: "Toot."

"Editor Owen," the angel said, "Scribble no more for your daily bread.

Your intellect staggers and falls and bleeds, Weary of writing what n.o.body reads.

Eschew now the quill--in the coming years Homilize man through his idle ears.

Go lecture!" "Just what I intended to do,"

Said Owen. The angel looked pained and flew.

Editor Owen, of San Jose, Commonly known as "our friend J.J."

Scribbling no more to supply his needs, Weary of writing what n.o.body reads, Pa.s.ses of life each golden year Speaking what n.o.body comes to hear.

A POLITICAL APOSTATE

Good friend, it is with deep regret I note The latest, strangest turning of your coat; Though any way you wear that mental clout The seamy side seems always to be out.

Who could have thought that you would e'er sustain The Southern shotgun's arbitrary reign!-- Your st.u.r.dy hand a.s.sisting to replace The broken yoke on a delivered race; The ballot's purity no more your care, With equal privilege to dark and fair.

To Yesterday a traitor, to To-day You're constant but the better to betray To-morrow. Your convictions all are naught But the wild a.s.ses of the world of thought, Which, flying mindless o'er the barren plain, Perceive at last they've nothing so to gain, And, turning penitent upon their track, Economize their strength by flying back.

Ex-champion of Freedom, battle-lunged, No more, red-handed, or at least red-tongued, Brandish the javelin which by others thrown Clove Sambo's heart to quiver in your own!

Confess no more that when his blood was shed, And you so sympathetically bled, The bow that spanned the mutual cascade Was but the promise of a roaring trade In offices. Your fingering now the trigger Shows that you _knew_ your Negro was a n.i.g.g.e.r!

_Ad hominem_ this _argumentum_ runs: Peace!--let us fire another kind of guns.

I grant you, friend, that it is very true The Blacks are ignorant--and sable, too.

What then? One way of two a fool must vote, And either way with gentlemen of note Whose villain feuds the fact attest too well That pedagogues nor vice nor error quell.

The fiercest controversies ever rage When Miltons and Salmasii engage.

No project wide attention ever drew But it disparted all the learned crew.

As through their group the cleaving line's prolonged With fiery combatants each field is thronged.

In battle-royal they engage at once For guidance of the hesitating dunce.

The t.i.tans on the heights contend full soon-- On this side Webster and on that Calhoun, The monstrous conflagration of their fight Startling the day and splendoring the night!

Both are unconquerable--_one_ is right.

Will't keep the pigmy, if we make him strong, From siding with a giant in the wrong?

When Genius strikes for error, who's afraid To arm poor Folly with a wooden blade?

O Rabelais, you knew it all!--your good And honest judge (by men misunderstood) Knew to be right there was but one device Less fallible than ignorance--the dice.

The time must come--Heaven expedite the day!-- When all mankind shall their decrees obey, And nations prosper in their peaceful sway.

TINKER d.i.c.k

Good Parson d.i.c.kson preached, I'm told, A sermon--ah, 'twas very old And very, very, bald!

'Twas all about--I know not what It was about, nor what 'twas not.

"A Screw Loose" it was called.

Whatever, Parson d.i.c.k, you say, The world will get each blessed day Still more and more askew, And fall apart at last. Great snakes!

What skillful tinker ever takes His tongue to turn a screw?

BATS IN SUNs.h.i.+NE

Well, Mr. Kemble, you are called, I think, A great divine, and I'm a great profane.

You as a Congregationalist blink Some certain truths that I esteem a gain, And drop them in the coffers of my brain, Pleased with the pretty music of their c.h.i.n.k.

Perhaps your spiritual wealth is such A golden truth or two don't count for much.

You say that you've no patience with such stuff As by Renan is writ, and when you read (Why _do_ you read?) have hardly strength enough To hold your hand from flinging the vile screed Into the fire. That were a wasteful deed Which you'd repent in sackcloth extra rough; For books cost money, and I'm told you care To lay up treasures Here as well as There.

I fear, good, pious soul, that you mistake Your thrift for toleration. Never mind: Renan in any case would hardly break His great, strong, charitable heart to find The bats and owls of your myopic kind Pained by the light that his ideas make.

'Tis Truth's best purpose to s.h.i.+ne in at holes Where cower the Kembles, to confound their souls!

A WORD TO THE UNWISE

[Charles Main, of the firm of Main & Winchester, has ordered a grand mausoleum for his plot in Mountain View Cemetery.--_City Newspaper_.]

Charles Main, of Main & Winchester, attend With friendly ear the chit-chat of a friend Who knows you not, yet knows that you and he Travel two roads that have a common end.

We journey forward through the time allowed, I humbly bending, you erect and proud.

Our heads alike will stable soon the worm-- The one that's lifted, and the one that's bowed.

You in your mausoleum shall repose, I where it pleases Him who sleep bestows; What matter whether one so little worth Shall stain the marble or shall feed the rose?

Charles Main, I had a friend who died one day.

A metal casket held his honored clay.

Of cyclopean architecture stood The splendid vault where he was laid away.

A dozen years, and lo! the roots of gra.s.s Had burst asunder all the joints; the bra.s.s, The gilded ornaments, the carven stones Lay tumbled all together in a ma.s.s.

A dozen years! That taxes your belief.

Make it a thousand if the time's too brief.

'Twill be the same to you; when you are dead You cannot even count your days of grief.

Suppose a pompous monument you raise Till on its peak the solar splendor blaze While yet about its base the night is black; But will it give your glory length of days?