known through spiritual evidence, Reported not by gross material sense. "Why come ye here?" I seemed to cry (though naught My sleeping tongue did utter) to the first— "What are ye?—with what woful message fraught? Ye have a ghastly look, as ye had burst Some sepulcher in memory. Weird creatures, I'm sure I'd know you if ye had but features." Some subtle organ noted the reply (Inaudible to ear of flesh the tone): "The Finest Climate in the World am I, From Siskiyou to San Diego known— From the Sierra to the sea. The zone Called semi-tropical I've pulled about And placed it where it does most good, I trust. I shake my never-failing bounty out Alike upon the just and the unjust." "That's very true," said I, "but when 'tis shaken My share by the unjust is ever taken." "Permit me," it resumed, "now to present My eldest son, the Champagne Atmosphere, And others to rebuke your discontent— The Mammoth Squash, Strawberry All the Year, The fair No Lightning—flashing only here— The Wholesome Earthquake and Italian Sky, With its Unstriking Sun; and last, not least, The Compos Mentis Dog. Now, ingrate, try To bring a better stomach to the feast: When Nature makes a dance and pays the piper, To be unhappy is to be a viper!" "Why, yet," said I, "with all your blessings fine (And Heaven forbid that I should speak them ill) I yet am poor and sick and sad. Ye shine With more of splendor than of heat: for still, Although my will is warm, my bones are chill." "Then warm you with enthusiasm's blaze— Fortune waits not on toil," they cried; "O then Join the wild chorus clamoring our praise— Throw up your beaver and throw down you pen!" "Begone!" I shouted. They bewent, a-smirking, And I, awakening, fell straight a-working. A "MASS" MEETING It was a solemn rite as e'er Was seen by mortal man. The celebrants, the people there, Were all Republican. There Estee bent his grizzled head, And General Dimond, too, And one—'twas Reddick, some one said, Though no one clearly knew. I saw the priest, white-robed and tall (Assistant, Father Stow)— He was the pious man men call Dan Burns of Mexico. Ah, 'twas a high and holy rite As any one could swear. "What does it mean?" I asked a wight Who knelt apart in prayer. "A mass for the repose," he said, "Of Colonel Markham's"——"What, Is gallant Colonel Markham dead? 'Tis sad, 'tis sad, God wot!" "A mass"—repeated he, and rose To go and kneel among The worshipers—"for the repose Of Colonel Markham's
Prev.
Back
Top