Shapes of Clay Part 22

And straightway bought with coin and credit The _Thundergust_ for him to edit.

The great man seized the pen and ink And wrote so hard he couldn't think; Ideas grew beneath his fist And flew like falcons from his wrist.

His pen shot sparks all kinds of ways Till all the rivers were ablaze, And where the coruscations fell Men uttered words I dare not spell.

Eftsoons with corrugated brow, Wet towels bound about his pow, Locked legs and failing appet.i.te, He thought so hard he couldn't write.

His soaring fancies, chickenwise, Came home to roost and wouldn't rise.

With dimmer light and milder heat His goose-quill staggered o'er the sheet, Then dragged, then stopped; the finish came-- He couldn't even write his name.

The _Thundergust_ in three short weeks Had risen, roared, and split its cheeks.

Said Pondronummus, "How unjust!

The storm I raised has laid my dust!"

When, Moneybagger, you have aught Invested in a vein of thought, Be sure you've purchased not, instead, That salted claim, a bookworm's head.

THE FOLLOWING PAIR.

O very remarkable mortal, What food is engaging your jaws And staining with amber their portal?

"It's 'baccy I chaws."

And why do you sway in your walking, To right and left many degrees, And hitch up your trousers when talking?

"I follers the seas."

Great indolent shark in the rollers, Is "'baccy," too, one of your faults?-- You, too, display maculate molars.

"I dines upon salts."

Strange diet!--intestinal pain it Is commonly given to nip.

And how can you ever obtain it?

"I follers the ship."

POLITICAL ECONOMY.

"I beg you to note," said a Man to a Goose, As he plucked from her bosom the plumage all loose, "That pillows and cushions of feathers and beds As warm as maids' hearts and as soft as their heads, Increase of life's comforts the general sum-- Which raises the standard of living." "Come, come,"

The Goose said, impatiently, "tell me or cease, How that is of any advantage to geese."

"What, what!" said the man--"you are very obtuse!

Consumption no profit to those who produce?

No good to accrue to Supply from a grand Progressive expansion, all round, of Demand?

Luxurious habits no benefit bring To those who purvey the luxurious thing?

Consider, I pray you, my friend, how the growth Of luxury promises--" "Promises," quoth The sufferer, "what?--to what course is it pledged To pay me for being so often defledged?"

"Accustomed"--this notion the plucker expressed As he ripped out a handful of down from her breast-- "To one kind of luxury, people soon yearn For others and ever for others in turn; And the man who to-night on your feathers will rest, His mutton or bacon or beef to digest, His hunger to-morrow will wish to a.s.suage By dining on goose with a dressing of sage."

VANISHED AT c.o.c.k-CROW.

"I've found the secret of your charm," I said, Expounding with complacency my guess.

Alas! the charm, even as I named it, fled, For all its secret was unconsciousness.

THE UNPARDONABLE SIN.

I reckon that ye never knew, That dandy slugger, Tom Carew, He had a touch as light an' free As that of any honey-bee; But where it lit there wasn't much To jestify another touch.

O, what a Sunday-school it was To watch him puttin' up his paws An' roominate upon their heft-- Particular his holy left!

Tom was my style--that's all I say; Some others may be equal gay.

What's come of him? Dunno, I'm sure-- He's dead--which make his fate obscure.

I only started in to clear One vital p'int in his career, Which is to say--afore he died He soiled his erming mighty snide.

Ye see he took to politics And learnt them statesmen-fellers' tricks; Pulled wires, wore stovepipe hats, used scent, Just like he was the President; Went to the Legislator; spoke Right out agin the British yoke-- But that was right. He let his hair Grow long to qualify for Mayor, An' once or twice he poked his snoot In Congress like a low galoot!

It had to come--no gent can hope To wrastle G.o.d agin the rope.

Tom went from bad to wuss. Being dead, I s'pose it oughtn't to be said, For sech inikities as flow From politics ain't fit to know; But, if you think it's actin' white To tell it--Thomas throwed a fight!

INDUSTRIAL DISCONTENT.

As time rolled on the whole world came to be A desolation and a darksome curse; And some one said: "The changes that you see In the fair frame of things, from bad to worse, Are wrought by strikes. The sun withdrew his glimmer Because the moon a.s.sisted with her shimmer.

"Then, when poor Luna, straining very hard, Doubled her light to serve a darkling world, He called her 'scab,' and meanly would r.e.t.a.r.d Her rising: and at last the villain hurled A heavy beam which knocked her o'er the Lion Into the nebula of great O'Ryan.

"The planets all had struck some time before, Demanding what they said were equal rights: Some pointing out that others had far more That a fair dividend of satellites.

So all went out--though those the best provided, If they had dared, would rather have abided.

"The stars struck too--I think it was because The comets had more liberty than they, And were not bound by any hampering laws, While _they_ were fixed; and there are those who say The comets' tresses nettled poor Altair, An aged orb that hasn't any hair.

"The earth's the only one that isn't in The movement--I suppose because she's watched With horror and disgust how her fair skin Her pranking parasites have fouled and blotched With blood and grease in every labor riot, When seeing any purse or throat to fly at."

TEMPORA MUTANTUR.

"The world is dull," I cried in my despair: "Its myths and fables are no longer fair.

"Roll back thy centuries, O Father Time.

To Greece transport me in her golden prime.