tomb. For memory of worth and work we go To other records than a stone can show. These lacking, naught remains; with these The stone is needless for the world will know. Then build your mausoleum if you must, And creep into it with a perfect trust; But in the twinkling of an eye the plow Shall pass without obstruction through your dust. Another movement of the pendulum, And, lo! the desert-haunting wolf shall come, And, seated on the spot, shall howl by night O'er rotting cities, desolate and dumb. 

 

 ON THE PLATFORM

   When Dr. Bill Bartlett stepped out of the hum Of Mammon's distracting and wearisome strife To stand and deliver a lecture on "Some Conditions of Intellectual Life,"   I cursed the offender who gave him the hall To lecture on any conditions at all! But he rose with a fire divine in his eye, Haranguing with endless abundance of breath, Till I slept; and I dreamed of a gibbet reared high, And Dr. Bill Bartlett was dressing for death. And I thought in my dream: "These conditions, no doubt, Are bad for the life he was talking about."    So I cried (pray remember this all was a dream):     "Get off of the platform!—it isn't the kind!"   But he fell through the trap, with a jerk at the beam, And wiggled his toes to unburden his mind. And, O, so bewitching the thoughts he advanced, That I clung to his ankles, attentive, entranced! 

 

 A DAMPENED ARDOR

   The Chinatown at Bakersfield Was blazing bright and high; The flames to water would not yield, Though torrents drenched the sky And drowned the ground for miles around—     The houses were so dry. Then rose an aged preacher man Whom all did much admire, Who said: "To force on you my plan I truly don't aspire, But streams, it seems, might quench these beams If turned upon the fire."    The fireman said: "This hoary wight His folly dares to thrust On us! 'Twere well he felt our might—     Nay, he shall feel our must!"   With jet of wet and small regret They laid that old man's dust. 

 

 ADAIR WELCKER, POET

   The Swan of Avon died—the Swan Of Sacramento'll soon be gone; And when his death-song he shall coo, Stand back, or it will kill you too. 

 

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