Black Beetles in Amber Part 9

As through the blue expanse he skims On joyous wings, the late Frank Hutchings overtakes Miss Sims, Both bound for Heaven's high gate.

In life they loved and (G.o.d knows why A lover so should sue) He slew her, on the gallows high Died pious--and they flew.

Her pinions were bedraggled, soiled And torn as by a gale, While his were bright--all freshly oiled The feathers of his tail.

Her visage, too, was stained and worn And menacing and grim; His sweet and mild--you would have sworn That _she_ had murdered _him_.

When they'd arrived before the gate He said to her: "My dear, 'Tis hard once more to separate, But _you_ can't enter here.

"For you, unluckily, were sent So quickly to the grave You had no notice to repent, Nor time your soul to save."

"'Tis true," said she, "and I should wail In h.e.l.l even now, but I Have lingered round the county jail To see a Christian die."

A CONTROVERSIALIST

I've sometimes wished that Ingersoll were wise To hold his tongue, nor rail against the skies; For when he's made a point some pious dunce Like Bartlett of the _Bulletin_ "replies."

I brandish no iconoclastic fist, Nor enter the debate an atheist; But when they say there is a G.o.d I ask Why Bartlett, then, is suffered to exist.

Even infidels that logic might resent, Saying: "There's no place for his punishment That's worse than earth." But humbly I submit That he would make a h.e.l.l wherever sent.

MENDAX

High Lord of Liars, Pickering, to thee Let meaner mortals bend the subject knee!

Thine is mendacity's imperial crown, Alike by genius, action and renown.

No man, since words could set a cheek aflame E'er lied so greatly with so little shame!

O bad old man, must thy remaining years Be pa.s.sed in leading idiots by their ears-- Thine own (which Justice, if she ruled the roast Would fasten to the penitential post) Still wagging sympathetically--hung the same rocking-bar that bears thy tongue?

Thou dog of darkness, dost thou hope to stay Time's dread advance till thou hast had thy day?

Dost think the Strangler will release his hold Because, forsooth, some fibs remain untold?

No, no--beneath thy multiplying load Of years thou canst not tarry on the road To dabble in the blood thy leaden feet Have pressed from bosoms that have ceased to beat Of reputations margining thy way, Nor wander from the path new truth to slay.

Tell to thyself whatever lies thou wilt, Catch as thou canst at pennies got by guilt-- Straight down to death this blessed year thou'lt sink, Thy life washed out as with a wave of ink.

But if this prophecy be not fulfilled, And thou who killest patience be not killed; If age a.s.sail in vain and vice attack Only by folly to be beaten back; Yet Nature can this consolation give: The rogues who die not are condemned to live!

THE RETROSPECTIVE BIRD

His caw is a cackle, his eye is dim, And he mopes all day on the lowest limb; Not a word says he, but he snaps his bill And twitches his palsied head, as a quill, The ultimate plume of his pride and hope, Quits his now featherless nose-of-the-Pope, Leaving that eminence brown and bare Exposed to the Prince of the Power of the Air.

And he sits and he thinks: "I'm an old, old man, Mateless and chickless, the last of my clan, But I'd give the half of the days gone by To perch once more on the branches high, And hear my great-grand-daddy's comical croaks In authorized versions of _Bulletin_ jokes."

THE OAKLAND DOG

I lay one happy night in bed And dreamed that all the dogs were dead.

They'd all been taken out and shot-- Their bodies strewed each vacant lot.

O'er all the earth, from Berkeley down To San Leandro's ancient town, And out in s.p.a.ce as far as Niles-- I saw their mortal parts in piles.

One stack upreared its ridge so high Against the azure of the sky That some good soul, with pious views, Put up a steeple and sold pews.

No wagging tail the scene relieved: I never in my life conceived (I swear it on the Decalogue!) Such penury of living dog.

The barking and the howling stilled, The snarling with the snarler killed, All nature seemed to hold its breath: The silence was as deep as death.

True, candidates were all in roar On every platform, as before; And villains, as before, felt free To finger the calliope.

True, the Salvationist by night, And milkman in the early light, The lonely flutist and the mill Performed their functions with a will.

True, church bells on a Sunday rang The sick man's curtain down--the bang Of trains, contesting for the track, Out of the shadow called him back.

True, c.o.c.ks, at all unheavenly hours, Crew with excruciating powers, Cats on the woodshed rang and roared, Fat citizens and fog-horns snored.

But this was all too fine for ears Accustomed, through the awful years, To the nocturnal monologues And day debates of Oakland dogs.

And so the world was silent. Now What else befell--to whom and how?

_Imprimis_, then, there were no fleas, And days of worth brought nights of ease.

Men walked about without the dread Of being torn to many a shred, Each fragment holding half a cruse Of hydrophobia's quickening juice.

They had not to propitiate Some curst kioodle at each gate, But entered one another's grounds, Unscared, and were not fed to hounds.

Women could drive and not a pup Would lift the horse's tendons up And let them go--to interject A certain musical effect.

Even children's ponies went about, All grave and sober-paced, without A bulldog hanging to each nose-- Proud of his fragrance, I suppose.

Dog being dead, Man's lawless flame Burned out: he granted Woman's claim, Children's and those of country, art-- all took lodgings in his heart.

When memories of his former shame Crimsoned his cheeks with sudden flame He said; "I know my fault too well-- They fawned upon me and I fell."

Ah! 'twas a lovely world!--no more I met that indisposing bore, The unseraphic cynogogue-- The man who's proud to love a dog.

Thus in my dream the golden reign Of Reason filled the world again, And all mankind confessed her sway, From Walnut Creek to San Jose.