Ust to rattle him scandalous,
  And keep the feller a-dodgin’ us,
  And a-shyin’ round half skeered to death,
  And afeerd to whimper above his breath;
  Give him a cussin’, and then a kick,
  And then a kind-of-a back-hand lick—­
  Jes’ far the fun of seem’ him climb
  Around with a head on most the time.

  But what was the curioust thing to me,
  Was along o’ the party—­let me see,—­
  Who was our “Lion Queen” last year?—­
  Mamzelle Zanty, or De La Pierre?—­
  Well, no matter—­a stunnin’ mash,
  With a red-ripe lip, and a long eye-lash,
  And a figger sich as the angels owns—­
  And one too many far this man Jones.

  He’d allus wake in the afternoon,
  As the band waltzed in on the lion-tune,
  And there, from the time ’at she’d go in
  Till she’d back out of the cage agin,
  He’d stand, shaky and limber-kneed—­
  ’Specially when she come to “feed
  The beasts raw meat with her naked hand”—­
  And all that business, you understand.

  And it was resky in that den—­
  Far I think she juggled three cubs then,
  And a big “green” lion ’at used to smash
  Collar-bones far old Frank Nash;
  And I reckon now she hain’t fergot
  The afternoon old “Nero” sot
  His paws on her!—­but as far me,
  It’s a sort-of-a mixed-up mystery:—­

Kind o’ remember an awful roar, And see her back far the bolted door—­ See the cage rock—­heerd her call “God have mercy!” and that was all—­ Far they ain’t no livin’ man can tell What it’s like when a thousand yell In female tones, and a thousand more Howl in bass till their throats is sore!

  But the keeper said ’at dragged her out,
  They heerd some feller laugh and shout—­
  “Save her!  Quick!  I’ve got the cuss!”
  And yit she waked and smiled on us!
  And we daren’t flinch, far the doctor said,
  Seein’ as this man Jones was dead,
  Better to jes’ not let her know
  Nothin’ o’ that far a week er so.

TO MY GOOD MASTER.

  In fancy, always, at thy desk, thrown wide,
    Thy most betreasured books ranged neighborly—­
    The rarest rhymes of every land and sea
  And curious tongue—­thine old face glorified,—­
  Thou haltest thy glib quill, and, laughing-eyed,
    Givest hale welcome even unto me,
    Profaning thus thine attic’s sanctity,
  To briefly visit, yet to still abide
  Enthralled there of thy sorcery of wit,
    And thy songs’ most exceeding dear conceits. 
    O lips, cleft to the ripe core of all sweets,
    With poems, like nectar, issuing therefrom,
    Thy gentle utterances do overcome
  My listening heart and all the love of it!

WHEN THE GREEN GITS BACK IN THE TREES.