Volume X Part 12 (1/2)

A s.h.i.+NING MARK

BY IRONQUILL

A man came here from Idaho, With lots of mining stock.

He brought along as specimens A lot of mining rock.

The stock was worth a cent a pound If stacked up in a pile.

The rock was worth a dollar and A half per cubic mile.

We planted him at eventide, 'Mid shadows dim and dark; We fixed him up an epitaph,-- ”Death loves a mining shark.”

A BOOKWORM'S PLAINT[3]

BY CLINTON SCOLLARD

To-day, when I had dined my fill Upon a Caxton,--you know Will,-- I crawled forth o'er the colophon To bask awhile within the sun; And having coiled my sated length, I felt anon my whilom strength Slip from me gradually, till deep I dropped away in dreamful sleep, Wherein I walked an endless maze, And dined on Caxtons all my days.

Then I woke suddenly. Alas!

What in my sleep had come to pa.s.s?

That priceless first edition row,-- Squat quarto and tall folio,-- Had, in my slumber, vanished quite; Instead, on my astonished sight The newest novels burst,--a gay And most unpalatable array!

I, that have battened on the best, Why should I thus be dispossessed And with starvation, or the worst Of diets, cruelly be curst?

FOOTNOTES:

[3] Lippincott's Magazine.

A POE-'EM OF Pa.s.sION

BY CHARLES F. LUMMIS

It was many and many a year ago, On an island near the sea, That a maiden lived whom you mightn't know By the name of Cannibalee; And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than a pa.s.sionate fondness for me.

I was a child, and she was a child-- Tho' her tastes were adult Feejee-- But she loved with a love that was more than love, My yearning Cannibalee; With a love that could take me roast or fried Or raw, as the case might be.

And that is the reason that long ago, In that island near the sea, I had to turn the tables and eat My ardent Cannibalee-- Not really because I was fond of her, But to check her fondness for me.

But the stars never rise but I think of the size Of my hot-potted Cannibalee, And the moon never stares but it brings me nightmares Of my spare-rib Cannibalee;

And all the night-tide she is restless inside, Is my still indigestible dinner-belle bride, In her pallid tomb, which is Me, In her solemn sepulcher, Me.

THE REAL DIARY OF A REAL BOY