thou, as heretofore thou hast, wilt deign To reap advantage of a fool's advice By action ordered after nature's way, As in thy people manifest (for still Stupidity's the only wisdom) thou Wilt get thee straight unto to the border land To mark the President's approach with such Due, decent courtesy as it shall seem We have in custom the best warrant for."    Pennoyer, Governor of Oregon, Eyeing the storm of hats which darkened all The Southern sky, and hearing far hurrahs Of an exulting people, answered not. Then some there were who fell upon their knees, And some upon their Governor, and sought Each in his way, by blandishment or force, To gain his action to their end. "Behold,"   They said, "thy brother Governor to South Met him even at the gateway of his realm, Crook-kneed, magnetic-handed and agrin, Backed like a rainbow—all things done in form Of due observance and respect. Shall we Alone of all his servitors refuse Swift welcome to our master and our lord?"    Pennoyer, Governor of Oregon, Answered them not, but turned his back to them And as if speaking to himself, the while He started to retire, said: "He be damned!"    To that High Place o'er Portland's central block, Where the Recording Angel stands to view The sinning world, nor thinks to move his feet Aside and look below, came flocking up Inferior angels, all aghast, and cried:   "Pennoyer, Governor of Oregon, Has said, O what an awful word!—too bad To be by us repeated!" "Yes, I know,"   Said the superior bird—"I heard it too, And 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. 

 

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