ONE OF THE SAINTS

Big Smith is an Oakland School Board man,
And he looks as good as ever he can;
And he’s such a cold and a chaste Big Smith
That snowflakes all are his kin and kith. 
Wherever his eye he chances to throw
The crystals of ice begin to grow;
And the fruits and flowers he sees are lost
By the singeing touch of a sudden frost. 
The women all shiver whenever he’s near,
And look upon us with a look austere—­
Effect of the Smithian atmosphere. 
Such, in a word, is the moral plan
Of the Big, Big Smith, the School Board man. 
When told that Madame Ferrier had taught
Hernani in school, his fist he brought
Like a trip-hammer down on his bulbous knee,
And he roared:  “Her Nanny?  By gum, we’ll see
If the public’s time she dares devote
To the educatin’ of any dam goat!”
“You do not entirely comprehend—­
Hernani’s a play,” said his learned friend,
“By Victor Hugo—­immoral and bad. 
What’s worse, it’s French!” “Well, well, my lad,”
Said Smith, “if he cuts a swath so wide
I’ll have him took re’glar up and tried!”
And he smiled so sweetly the other chap
Thought that himself was a Finn or Lapp
Caught in a storm of his native snows,
With a purple ear and an azure nose. 
The Smith continued:  “I never pursue
Immoral readin’.”  And that is true: 
He’s a saint of remarkably high degree,
With a mind as chaste as a mind can be;
But read!—­the devil a word can he!

A MILITARY INCIDENT

Dawn heralded the coming sun—­
  Fort Douglas was computing
The minutes—­and the sunrise gun
  Was manned for his saluting.

The gunner at that firearm stood,
  The which he slowly loaded,
When, bang!—­I know not how it could,
  But sure the charge exploded!

Yes, to that veteran’s surprise
  The gun went off sublimely,
And both his busy arms likewise
Went off with it, untimely.

Then said that gunner to his mate
  (He was from Ballyshannon): 
“Bedad, the sun’s a minute late,
  Accardin’ to this cannon!”

SUBSTANCE VERSUS SHADOW

So, gentle critics, you would have me tilt,
Not at the guilty, only just at Guilt!—­
Spare the offender and condemn Offense,
And make life miserable to Pretense! 
“Whip Vice and Folly—­that is satire’s use—­
But be not personal, for that’s abuse;
Nor e’er forget what, ’like a razor keen,
Wounds with a touch that’s neither felt nor seen.’”
Well, friends, I venture, destitute of awe,
To think that razor but an old, old saw,
A trifle rusty; and a wound, I’m sure,
That’s felt not, seen not, one can well endure. 
Go to! go to!—­you’re as unfitted quite
To give advice to writers as to write.