I dreamed one night that Stephen Massett died, And for admission up at Heaven applied. "Who are you?" asked St. Peter. Massett said: "Jeems Pipes, of Pipesville." Peter bowed his head, Opened the gates and said: "I'm glad to know you, And wish we'd something better, sir, to show you." "Don't mention it," said Stephen, looking bland, And was about to enter, hat in hand, When from a cloud below such fumes arose As tickled tenderly his conscious nose. He paused, replaced his hat upon his head, Turned back and to the saintly warden said, O'er his already sprouting wings: "I swear I smell some broiling going on down there!" So Massett's paunch, attracted by the smell, Followed his nose and found a place in Hell. ORNITHANTHROPOS "Let John P. Irish rise!" the edict rang As when Creation into being sprang! Nature, not clearly understanding, tried To make a bird that on the air could ride. But naught could baffle the creative plan-- Despite her efforts 'twas almost a man. Yet he had risen--to the bird a twin-- Had she but fixed a wing upon his chin. TO E.S. SALOMON Who in a Memorial Day oration protested bitterly against decorating the graves of Confederate dead. What! Salomon! such words from you, Who call yourself a soldier? Well, The Southern brother where he fell Slept all your base oration through. Alike to him--he cannot know Your praise or blame: as little harm Your tongue can do him as your arm A quarter-century ago. The brave respect the brave. The brave Respect the dead; but _you_--you draw That ancient blade, the ass's jaw, And shake it o'er a hero's grave. Are you not he who makes to-day A merchandise of old renown Which he persuades this easy town He won in battle far away? Nay, those the fallen who revile Have ne'er before the living stood And stoutly made their battle good And greeted danger with a smile. What if the dead whom still you hate Were wrong? Are you so surely right? We know the issue of the fight-- The sword is but an advocate. Men live and die, and other men Arise with knowledges diverse: What seemed a blessing seems a curse, And Now is still at odds with Then. The years go on, the old comes back To mock the new--beneath the sun. Is _nothing_ new; ideas run Recurrent in an endless track. What most we censure, men as wise Have reverently practiced; nor Will future wisdom fail to war On principles we dearly prize. We do not know--we can but deem, And he is loyalest and best Who takes the light full on his breast And follows it throughout the dream. The broken light, the shadows wide-- Behold the battle-field displayed! God save the vanquished from the blade, The victor from the victor's pride! If, Salomon, the blessed dew That falls upon the Blue and Gray Is powerless to wash away The sin of differing from you.