Upon the Reservation wide
  We give for his inhabiting
  He goes a-jackass rabbiting
To furnish his inside.

The hopper singing in the grass
  He seizes with avidity: 
  He loves its tart acidity,
And gobbles all that pass.

He penetrates the spider’s veil,
  Industriously pillages
  The toads’ defenseless villages,
And shadows home the snail.

He lightly runs to earth the quaint
  Red worm and, deftly troweling,
  He makes it with his boweling
Familiarly acquaint.

He tracks the pine-nut to its lair,
  Surrounds it with celerity,
  Regards it with asperity—­
Smiles, and it isn’t there!

I wish he’d open up a grin
  Of adequate vivacity
  And carrying capacity
To take his Agent in.

FAME

He held a book in his knotty paws,
  And its title grand read he: 
“The Chronicles of the Kings” it was,
  By the History Companee. 
“I’m a monarch,” he said
(But a tear he shed)
  “And my picter here you see.

“Great and lasting is my renown,
  However the wits may flout—­
As wide almost as this blessed town”
  (But he winced as if with gout). 
“I paid ’em like sin
For to put me in,
  But it’s O, and O, to be out!”

ONE OF THE REDEEMED

Saint Peter, standing at the Gate, beheld
A soul whose body Death had lately felled.

A pleasant soul as ever was, he seemed: 
His step was joyous and his visage beamed.

“Good morning, Peter.”  There was just a touch
Of foreign accent, but not overmuch.

The Saint bent gravely, like a stately tree,
And said:  “You have the advantage, sir, of me.”

“Renan of Paris,” said the immortal part—­
“A master of the literary art.

“I’m somewhat famous, too, I grieve to tell,
As controversialist and infidel.”

“That’s of no consequence,” the Saint replied,
“Why, I myself my Master once denied.

“No one up here cares anything for that. 
But is there nothing you were always at?

“It seems to me you were accused one day
Of something—­what it was I can’t just say.”

“Quite likely,” said the other; “but I swear
My life was irreproachable and fair.”

Just then a soul appeared upon the wall,
Singing a hymn as loud as he could bawl.

About his head a golden halo gleamed,
As well befitted one of the redeemed.

A harp he bore and vigorously thumbed,
Strumming he sang, and, singing, ever strummed.

His countenance, suffused with holy pride,
Glowed like a pumpkin with a light inside.

“Ah! that’s the chap,” said Peter, “who declares: 
‘Renan’s a rake and drunkard—­smokes and swears.’

“Yes, that’s the fellow—­he’s a preacher—­came
From San Francisco.  Mansfield was his name.”