“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 assuage
By dining on goose with a dressing of
sage.”
VANISHED AT COCK-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 God 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!