The Ruling Passion

'Twas Christmas in giddy Gotham,

And Miss Irene de Jones

Awoke at noon and yawned and yawned,
And stretched her languid bones.
"I'm sorry it is Christmas,

Papa at home will stay,

For 'Change is closed and he won't make

A single cent to-day."

Windily dawned the Christmas
On the city by the lake,

And Miss Arabel Wabash Breezy
Was instantly awake.

"What's that thing in my stocking?

Well, in two jiffs I'll know!"
And she drew a grand piano forth

From 'way down in the toe.

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Unknown.

THE RULING PASSION

From "Moral Essays," Epistle I

THE frugal crone, whom praying priests attend,
Still tries to save the hallowed taper's end,
Collects her breath, as ebbing life retires,
For one puff more, and in that puff expires.

"Odious! in woollen! 'twould a saint provoke,"
Were the last words that poor Narcissa spoke;
"No, let a charming chintz and Brussels lace
Wrap my cold limbs, and shade my lifeless face:
One would not, sure, be frightful when one's dead,-
And-Betty-give this cheek a little red."

The courtier smooth, who forty years had shined An humble servant to all humankind,

Just brought out this, when scarce his tongue could stir, "If-where I'm going-I could serve you, sir?”

"I give and I devise" (old Euclio said, And sighed) "my lands and tenements to Ned."

Your money, sir?

Why if I must"

"My money, sir! What, all?
(then wept)-"I give it Paul."

The manor, sir? "The manor, hold!" he cried,
"Not that, I cannot part with that," and died.

Alexander Pope.

THE POPE AND THE NET

WHAT, he on whom our voices unanimously ran,
Made Pope at our last Conclave? Full low his life began:
His father earned the daily bread as just a fisherman.

So much the more his boy minds book, gives proof of mother-wit,

Becomes first Deacon, and then Priest, then Bishop: see him sit

No less than Cardinal ere long, while no one cries "Unfit!"

But some one smirks, some other smiles, jogs elbow and nods head;

Each wings at each: "I' faith, a rise! Saint Peter's net, instead

Of sword and keys, is come in vogue!" You think he blushes red!

Not he, of humble holy heart! "Unworthy me!" he sighs: "From fisher's drudge to Church's prince-it is indeed a rise:

So, here's my way to keep the fact forever in my eyes!"

And straightway in his palace-hall, where commonly is set Some coat-of-arms, some portraiture ancestral, lo, we met Ilis mean estate's reminder in his fisher-father's net!

Which step conciliates all and some, stops cavil in a trice: "The humble holy heart that holds of new-born pride no spice!

He's just the saint to choose for Pope!" Each adds, ""Tis my advice."

The Lost Spectacles

287 So Pope he was: and when we flocked-its sacred slipper

on

To kiss his foot, we lifted eyes, alack, the thing was goneThat guarantee of lowlihead,-eclipsed that star which shone!

Each eyed his fellow, one and all kept silence. I cried "Pish!

I'll make me spokesman for the rest, express the common wish.

Why, Father, is the net removed?" "Son, it hath caught the fish."

Robert Browning.

AN ACTOR

A SHABBY fellow chanced one day to meet
The British Roscius in the street,

Garrick, of whom our nation justly brags; The fellow hugged him with a kind embrace;"Good sir, I do not recollect your face,"

Quoth Garrick. "No?" replied the man of rags; "The boards of Drury you and I have trod

Full many a time together, I am sure."

"When?" with an oath, cried Garrick, "for, by G-d, I never saw that face of yours before!

What characters, I pray,

Did you and I together play?"

"Lord!" quoth the fellow, "think not that I mockWhen you played Hamlet, sir, I played the cock!" John Wolcot.

THE LOST SPECTACLES

A COUNTRY curate, visiting his flock,
At old Rebecca's cottage gave a knock.
"Good morrow, dame, I mean not any libel,
But in your dwelling have you got a Bible?"

"A Bible, sir?" exclaimed she in a rage,
"D'ye think I've turned a Pagan in my age?
Here, Judith, and run upstairs, my dear,

'Tis in the drawer, be quick and bring it here."
The girl return'd with Bible in a minute,
Not dreaming for a moment what was in it;
When lo! on opening it at parlor door,
Down fell her spectacles upon the floor.
Amaz'd she stared, was for a moment dumb,
But quick exclaim'd, "Dear sir, I'm glad you're come.
'Tis six years since these glasses first were lost,
And I have miss'd 'em to my poor eyes' cost!"
Then as the glasses to her nose she raised,
She closed the Bible-saying, "God be praised!"
Unknown.

THAT TEXAN CATTLE MAN

WE rode the tawny Texan hills,

A bearded cattle man and I;
Below us laughed the blossomed rills,
Above the dappled clouds blew by.
We talked. The topic?
The topic? Guess. Why, sir,
Three-fourths of man's whole time he keeps
To talk, to think, to be of HER;

The other fourth he sleeps.

To learn what he might know of love,
I laughed all constancy to scorn.
"Behold yon happy, changeful dove!

Behold this day, all storm at morn,

Yet now 't is changed to cloud and sun.
Yea, all things change-the heart, the head,
Behold on earth there is not one

That changeth not," I said.

He drew a glass as if to scan

The plain for steers; raised it and sighed.

He craned his neck, this cattle man,
Then drove the cork home and replied:

That Texan Cattle Man

"For twenty years (forgive these tears)-
For twenty years no word of strife-
I have not known for twenty years
One folly from my wife."

I looked that Texan in the face

That dark-browed, bearded cattle man,
He pulled his beard, then dropped in place

A broad right hand, all scarred and tan,
And toyed with something shining there
From out his holster, keen and small.
I was convinced. I did not care
To argue it at all.

But rest I could not. Know I must
The story of my Texan guide;
His dauntless love, enduring trust;
His blessed, immortal bride.

I wondered, marvelled, marvelled much.
Was she of Texan growth? Was she
Of Saxon blood, that boasted such
Eternal constancy?

I could not rest until I knew

"Now twenty years, my man," said I, "Is a long time." He turned and drew A pistol forth, also a sigh. ""Tis twenty years or more," said he, "Nay, nay, my honest man, I vow I do not doubt that this may be; But tell, oh! tell me how.

""Twould make a poem true and grand; All time should note it near and far; And thy fair, virgin Texan land

Should stand out like a Winter star.

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