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 godlike 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 Saturday Livercomplaint."

“Does he suffer, mother?”
“God 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 Hell 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.

DISCRETION.