to gain, Said, neighborly: "Pray tell me. Pete, Does any one contest my seat?"    The Saint replied: "Nay, nay, not so; But you voted always wrong below:    "Whate'er the question, clear and high You're voice rang: 'I,' 'I,' ever 'I.'"    Now indignation fired the heart Of that insulted immortal part.    "Die, wretch!" he cried, with blanching lip, And made a motion to his hip, With purpose murderous and hearty, To draw the Democratic party! He felt his fingers vainly slide Upon his unappareled hide    (The dead arise from their "silent tents"   But not their late habiliments)    Then wailed—the briefest of his speeches:   "I've left it in my other breeches!" 

 

 A POLITICAL VIOLET

   Come, Stanford, let us sit at ease And talk as old friends do. You talk of anything you please, And I will talk of you. You recently have said, I hear, That you would like to go To serve as Senator. That's queer! Have you told William Stow? Once when the Legislature said:     "Go, Stanford, and be great!"   You lifted up your Jovian head And everlooked the State. As one made leisurely awake, You lightly rubbed your eyes And answered: "Thank you—please to make A note of my surprise.    "But who are they who skulk aside, As to get out of reach, And in their clothing strive to hide Three thousand dollars each?    "Not members of your body, sure? No, that can hardly be:   All statesmen, I suppose, are pure. What! there are rogues? Dear me!"    You added, you'll recall, that though You were surprised and pained, You thought, upon the whole, you'd go, And in that mind remained. Now, what so great a change has wrought That you so frankly speak Of "seeking" honors once unsought Because you "scorned to seek"? Do you not fear the grave reproof In good Creed Haymond's eye? Will Stephen Gage not stand aloof And pass you coldly by? O, fear you not that Vrooman's lich     Will rise from earth and point At you a scornful finger which May lack, perchance, a joint? Go, Stanford, where the violets grow, And join their modest train. Await the work of William Stow And be surprised again. 

 

 THE SUBDUED EDITOR

   Pope-choker Pixley sat in his den A-chewin' upon his quid. He thought it was Leo Thirteen, and then He bit it intenser, he did. The amber which overflew from the cud Like rivers which burst out of bounds—   'Twas peculiar grateful to think it blood A-gushin' from Papal 

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