"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 rogues and the world's laughter's Directed at some others, for they're Shafters. THE MUMMERY THE TWO CAVEES DRAMATIS PERSONÆ. FITCH _a Pelter of Railrogues_ PICKERING _his Partner, an Enemy to Sin_ OLD NICK _a General Blackwasher_ DEAD CAT _a Missile_ ANTIQUE EGG _Another_ RAILROGUES, DUMP-CARTERS. NAVVIES and Unassorted SHOVELRY in the Lower Distance _Scene_--The Brink of a Railway Cut, a Mile Deep. _Time_--1875. FITCH: Gods! what a steep declivity! Below I see the lazy dump-carts come and go, Creeping like beetles and about as big. The delving Paddies-- PICKERING: Case of _infra dig._ FITCH: Loring, light-minded and unmeaning quips Come with but scant propriety from lips Fringed with the blue-black evidence of age. 'Twere well to cultivate a style more sage, For men will fancy, hearing how you pun, Our foulest missiles are but thrown in fun. (_Enter Dead Cat._)