He'd known himself a shining light, but never had he known Himself so very luminous as now he knew he shone. "A pillar, I, of fire," he'd said, "to guide my race will be;" And now that very inconvenient thing to him was he. He stood there all irresolute; the seconds went and came; The minutes passed and did but add fresh fuel to his flame. How long he stood he knew not--'twas a century or more-- And then that incandescent man levanted for the door! He darted like a comet from the building to the street, Where Fahrenheit attested ninety-five degrees of heat. Vicissitudes of climate make the tenure of the breath Precarious, and William Perry Peters froze to death! TWIN UNWORTHIES Ye parasites that to the rich men stick, As to the fattest sheep the thrifty tick-- Ed'ard to Stanford and to Crocker Ben (To Ben and Ed'ard many meaner men, And lice to these)--who do the kind of work That thieves would have the honesty to shirk-- Whose wages are that your employers own The fat that reeks upon your every bone And deigns to ask (the flattery how sweet!) About its health and how it stands the heat,-- Hail and farewell! I meant to write about you, But, no, my page is cleaner far without you. ANOTHER PLAN Editor Owen, of San Jose, Commonly known as "our friend J.J." Weary of scribbling for daily bread, Weary of writing what nobody read, Slept one day at his desk and dreamed That an angel before him stood and beamed With compassionate eyes upon him there. Editor Owen is not so fair In feature, expression, form or limb But glances like that are familiar to him; And so, to arrive by the shortest route At his visitor's will he said, simply: "Toot." "Editor Owen," the angel said, "Scribble no more for your daily bread. Your intellect staggers and falls and bleeds, Weary of writing what nobody reads. Eschew now the quill--in the coming years Homilize man through his idle ears. Go lecture!" "Just what I intended to do," Said Owen. The angel looked pained and flew. Editor Owen, of San Jose, Commonly known as "our friend J.J." Scribbling no more to supply his needs, Weary of writing what nobody reads, Passes of life each golden year Speaking what nobody comes to hear. A POLITICAL APOSTATE Good friend, it is with deep regret I note The latest, strangest turning of your coat; Though any way you wear that mental clout The seamy side seems always to be out. Who could have thought that you would e'er sustain The Southern shotgun's arbitrary reign!-- Your sturdy hand assisting to replace The broken yoke on a delivered race; The ballot's purity no more your care, With equal privilege to dark and fair. To Yesterday a traitor, to To-day You're constant but the better to betray To-morrow. Your convictions all are naught But the wild asses of the world of thought, Which, flying mindless o'er the barren plain, Perceive at last they've nothing so to gain, And, turning penitent upon their track, Economize their strength by flying back.