Over the man the street car ran, And the driver did never grin.

"O killer of men, pray tell me when Your laughter means to begin.

"Ten years to a day I've observed you slay, And I never have missed before Your jubilant peals as your crunching wheels Were spattered with human gore.

"Why is it, my boy, that you smother your joy, And why do you make no sign Of the merry mind that is dancing behind A solemner face than mine?"

The driver replied: "I would laugh till I cried If I had bisected you; But I'd like to explain, if I can for the pain, 'T is myself that I've cut in two."

TO A DEJECTED POET.

Thy gift, if that it be of G.o.d, Thou hast no warrant to appraise, Nor say: "Here part, O Muse, our ways, The road too stony to be trod."

Not thine to call the labor hard And the reward inadequate.

Who haggles o'er his hire with Fate Is better bargainer than bard.

What! count the effort labor lost When thy good angel holds the reed?

It were a sorry thing indeed To stay him till thy palm be crossed.

"The laborer is worthy"--nay, The sacred ministry of song Is rapture!--'t were a grievous wrong To fix a wages-rate for play.

A FOOL.

Says Anderson, Theosophist: "Among the many that exist In modern halls, Some lived in ancient Egypt's clime And in their childhood saw the prime Of Karnak's walls."

Ah, Anderson, if that is true 'T is my conviction, sir, that you Are one of those That once resided by the Nile, Peer to the sacred Crocodile, Heir to his woes.

My judgment is, the holy Cat Mews through your larynx (and your hat) These many years.

Through you the G.o.dlike Onion brings Its melancholy sense of things, And moves to tears.

In you the Bull divine again Bellows and paws the dusty plain, To nature true.

I challenge not his ancient hate But, lowering my knurly pate, Lock horns with you.

And though Reincarnation prove A creed too stubborn to remove, And all your school Of Theosophs I cannot scare-- All the more earnestly I swear That you're a fool.

You'll say that this is mere abuse Without, in fraying you, a use.

That's plain to see With only half an eye. Come, now, Be fair, be fair,--consider how It eases _me_!

THE HUMORIST.

"What is that, mother?"

"The funny man, child.

His hands are black, but his heart is mild."

"May I touch him, mother?"

"'T were foolishly done: He is slightly touched already, my son."

"O, why does he wear such a ghastly grin?"

"That's the outward sign of a joke within."

"Will he crack it, mother?"

"Not so, my saint; 'T is meant for the _Sat.u.r.day Livercomplaint."_

"Does he suffer, mother?"

"G.o.d help him, yes!-- A thousand and fifty kinds of distress."

"What makes him sweat so?"

"The demons that lurk In the fear of having to go to work."

"Why doesn't he end, then, his life with a rope?"

"Abolition of h.e.l.l has deprived him of hope."

MONTEFIORE.

I saw--'twas in a dream, the other night-- A man whose hair with age was thin and white: One hundred years had bettered by his birth, And still his step was firm, his eye was bright.

Before him and about him pressed a crowd.

Each head in reverence was bared and bowed, And Jews and Gentiles in a hundred tongues Extolled his deeds and spoke his fame aloud.

I joined the throng and, pushing forward, cried, "Montefiore!" with the rest, and vied In efforts to caress the hand that ne'er To want and worth had charity denied.

So closely round him swarmed our shouting clan He scarce could breathe, and taking from a pan A gleaming coin he tossed it o'er our heads, And in a moment was a lonely man!

A WARNING.

Cried Age to Youth: "Abate your speed!-- The distance hither's brief indeed."

But Youth pressed on without delay-- The shout had reached but half the way.