then, that opinions so suddenly change and promises and pledges so swiftly dissolve into a puff of wind and leave not a rack behind? Is it any wonder that Samson is shorn of his locks while yet he slumbers, and only wakes to find his window up, his strength and piety gone and his breeches pockets turned wrongside out? Is it any wonder that when, at last, the Rip Van Winkle of Public Confidence rises up from his trance he finds only the skeleton of Fidelity at his feet and the gunstock of safety rotted away from the rusted barrel of sovereignty by his side? And is it any wonder that he exclaims, in the language of old Rip of the Adirondacks, “Am I so soon forgot?” Is it any wonder that the bewildered Commonwealth, like poor old Rip, so often looks around, and failing to recognize the little pile of bones near by, asks with tearful eyes, “Vare iss mine leetle dog Schneider?” But what doth great Diana care For Samson when he’s lost his hair? The tears are vain that Rip doth shed: He slept too long, his dog is dead. So states are shorn, and nations weep, For crime committed while they sleep. Scheming lobbyists of mighty combines juggle together and whisper into the listening ears of shrewd politicians, “You’ve got the power and we’ve got the pie. We are willing to swap pie for power. What _we_ want is legislation or no legislation, as our interests may require. What _you_ want is _office_.” Then the politicians juggle and honey fuggle the floating vote, and there is a mighty shuffling of political cards and soon they all join hands behind closed doors and the soft whisper passes round the ring, “We are one and inseparable for power and for pie; we are the flowers that bloom in the spring, tra, la! Let the word be mum.” Then follows the secret banquet of bargain and intrigue under the very dome of liberty. It is quite exclusive, even more so than a banquet of the four hundred in the great metropolis. Old Copperas Breeches is not invited nor Brother Hickory Shirt, nor Dr. Honesty, nor ’Squire Patriotism, nor any of the old folks at home. There is no room around the festive board for Professor Pedagogue, of Purity High School, nor Deacon Righteousness, of Churchville. The public welfare is lost in the shuffle. After a short blessing is whispered by the Rev. Judasio Iscarriotis, the sumptuous feast begins, the menu consisting alone of pie: senatorial pie, sweetened with ring syrup; gubernatorial mince pie, flavored with moonshine; speakership pie, highly seasoned with the sunshine of spicy promises of favors to come; clerkship pie, dripping with the honey of fat and succulent salaries; and on down, to a little half moon dried apple pie of a free pass to oblivion. They clink their merry glasses, Now hear them softly sing— “The people are all asses, Diana’s in the swing!” And after the feast is over, After the pie is gone, The combines are in clover, As we go marching on.