“O, I’m the Unaverage Man,
    But you never have heard of me,
  For my brother, the Average Man, outran
    My fame with rapiditee,
    And I’m sunk in Oblivion’s sea,
  But my bully big brother the world can span
    With his wide notorietee. 
  I do everything that I can
    To make ’em attend to me,
  But the papers ignore the Unaverage Man
    With a weird uniformitee.”

  So sang with a dolorous note
    A voice that I heard from the beach;
  On the sable waters it seemed to float
    Like a mortal part of speech. 
  The sea was Oblivion’s sea,
    And I cried as I plunged to swim: 
  “The Unaverage Man shall reside with me.” 
    But he didn’t—­I stayed with him!

THE FREE TRADER’S LAMENT.

  Oft from a trading-boat I purchased spice
    And shells and corals, brought for my inspection
  From the fair tropics—­paid a Christian price
  And was content in my fool’s paradise,
    Where never had been heard the word “Protection.”

  ’T was my sole island; there I dwelt alone—­
    No customs-house, collector nor collection,
  But a man came, who, in a pious tone
  Condoled with me that I had never known
    The manifest advantage of Protection.

  So, when the trading-boat arrived one day,
    He threw a stink-pot into its mid-section. 
  The traders paddled for their lives away,
  Nor came again into that haunted bay,
    The blessed home thereafter of Protection.

  Then down he sat, that philanthropic man,
    And spat upon some mud of his selection,
  And worked it, with his knuckles in a pan,
  To shapes of shells and coral things, and span
    A thread of song in glory of Protection.

  He baked them in the sun.  His air devout
    Enchanted me.  I made a genuflexion: 
  “God help you, gentle sir,” I said.  “No doubt,”
  He answered gravely, “I’ll get on without
    Assistance now that we have got Protection.”

  Thenceforth I bought his wares—­at what a price
    For shells and corals of such imperfection! 
  “Ah, now,” said he, “your lot is truly nice.” 
  But still in all that isle there was no spice
    To season to my taste that dish, Protection.

SUBTERRANEAN PHANTASIES.

  I died.  As meekly in the earth I lay,
   With shriveled fingers reverently folded,
  The worm—­uncivil engineer!—­my clay
   Tunneled industriously, and the mole did. 
   My body could not dodge them, but my soul did;
  For that had flown from this terrestrial ball
  And I was rid of it for good and all.

  So there I lay, debating what to do—­
   What measures might most usefully be taken
  To circumvent the subterranean crew
   Of anthropophagi and save my bacon. 
   My fortitude was all this while unshaken,
  But any gentleman, of course, protests
  Against receiving uninvited guests.