Upon her horns engrafted him
And to the welkin wafted him--
The high-rolling, sky-rolling, hurtling hallelujah-lad of peerless volatility!

A CALLER

"Why, Goldenson, you're looking very well."
Said Death as, strolling through the County Jail,
He entered that serene assassin's cell
And hung his hat and coat upon a nail.
"I think that life in this secluded spot
Agrees with men of your trade, does it not?"

"Well, yes," said Goldenson, "I can't complain:
Life anywhere--provided it is mine--
Agrees with me; but I observe with pain
That still the people murmur and repine.
It hurts their sense of harmony, no doubt,
To see a persecuted man grow stout."

"O no, 'tis not your growing stout," said Death,
"Which makes these malcontents complain and scold--
They like you to be, somehow, scant of breath.
What they object to is your growing old.
And--though indifferent to lean or fat--
I don't myself entirely favor _that_."

With brows that met above the orbs beneath,
And nose that like a soaring hawk appeared,
And lifted lip, uncovering his teeth,
The Mamikellikiller coldly sneered:
"O, so you don't! Well, how will you assuage
Your spongy passion for the blood of age?"

Death with a clattering convulsion, drew
His coat on, hatted his unmeated pow,
Unbarred the door and, stepping partly through,
Turned and made answer: "I will _show_ you how.
I'm going to the Bench you call Supreme
And tap the old women who sit there and dream."

THE SHAFTER SHAFTED

Well, James McMillan Shafter, you're a Judge--
At least you were when last I knew of you;
And if the people since have made you budge
I did not notice it. I've much to do
Without endeavoring to follow, through
The miserable squabbles, dust and smudge,
The fate of even the veteran contenders
Who fight with flying colors and suspenders.
Being a Judge, 'tis natural and wrong
That you should villify the public press--
Save while you are a candidate. That song
Is easy quite to sing, and I confess
It wins applause from hearers who have less
Of spiritual graces than belong
To audiences of another kidney--
Men, for example, like Sir Philip Sidney.

Newspapers, so you say, don't always treat
The Judges with respect. That may be so
And still no harm done, for I swear I'll eat
My legs and in the long hereafter go,
Snake-like, upon my belly if you'll show
All Judges are respectable and sweet.
For some of them are rog