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 

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